said, as it was passed to him. But the others laughed and told him to take heart.
He took heart. It was a singular thing, but at that first bite his sudden confidence in his gustatory ability almost overwhelmed him. All his life he had avoided meat. His mother had always been convinced that such a delicate child as he had been could not properly digest it. But all at once he decided to forego his mother's philosophies for good and all. There was certainly nothing to be gained by following them any longer. So he cut himself a bite of the tender steak—fully half as generous as the bites that Bill was consuming across the table. And its first flavor simply filled him with delight.
"What is this meat?" he asked. "I 've certainly tasted it before."
"I 'll bet a few dollars that you have n't, if you 've lived all your life in the Middle West," Lennox answered. "Maybe you 've got what the scientists call an inherited memory of it. It's the kind of meat your grandfather used to live on—venison."
Both of them had seemed pleased that he liked the venison. And both seemed boyishly eager to test his reaction to the great, wild huckleberries that were the dessert of the simple meal. He tried them with much ceremony.
