THE TIN POT. 297 



sat staring at the fire, waiting for the water in his pot to 

 boil, and "chawing" steadily. And a strange figure he 

 presented, sitting in the uncertain flickering light, that 

 played over his gaunt, ungainly form and quaint, lantern- 

 jawed visage. His pot was a tin one, brand-new, one that 

 had never known fire ; and, freely reflecting the heat from 

 its polished surface, the water in it heated very slowly. I 

 had finished my first cup of coffee, and poured out my 

 second, when the object of my contemplation, who up to 

 that time had maintained his position of expectancy, 

 sprang suddenly to his feet. Striking an attidude, he 

 clenched his fist, and, shaking it menacingly at his pot, 

 apostrophised it thus : " Yeou gol-derned, dod-rotted, dog- 

 gonned son-uv-a-gun uv er shining bilk uv er pot, I'll tetch 

 yer not never to boil ez soon ez eny other blaimed pot 

 dern yer ! " Then he seized upon it, swung it over his 

 head, and uttered a loud cry a sort of mingled yell and 

 howl. Then he dashed the pot to the ground, leaped high 

 into the air, came down on it heels first, and smashed it 

 flat ; then he kicked it furiously all over the place until he 

 lost it in the brush. This extraordinary outbreak was 

 greeted with a prolonged roar of laughter from all hands, 

 upon hearing which the cause of our merriment stopped 

 his antics, and stood glaring upon us in apparently speech- 

 less fury. I called out to him : " Never mind your pot or 

 the boys laughing ; they don't intend to hurt your feelings. 

 Come and sit down and sup with me ; there is plenty 

 cooked and to spare." When he heard these words a 

 change came over the expression of his countenance, the 

 anger faded out of his eyes, and he walked up to me and 



