doesn’t taste like the other partridge. Are you sure it isn’t some poisonous bird?”
Bub chuckled heartily. “It’s because it isn’t seasoned. It is fresh, I’ll confess. If we had a little salt it would help it along wonderfully.”
“I can’t eat any of it,” decided Stanley, about to toss it away.
“Yes, you can,” drawled Bub. “Think I‘m going to kill game out of season, build a fire and run the risk of being murdered only to have you find fault with my cooking? Eat, my son. ”
Stanley obeyed, smiling faintly, and found that while the fowl was fresh it was not impossible as food and before he knew it he had devoured all the meat that even hinted at being cooked.
“If we’re at liberty by nightfall I’ll broil you a squirrel. It’ll go better,” encouraged Bub.
“Or we might catch some fish,” eagerly added Stanley.
“You’re planning out a regular hotel dinner,” condemned Bub. “Besides, a fresh water fish, with no seasoning, is about the freshest thing you ever tackled. It’s worse than partridge, for the bird lives on buds and the like and are sort of gamy even when eaten without salt. But a fish is just wishywashy. There isn’t any expression to unseasoned fish.”
