WARWICK WOUDL.Wns. 167 



inconsiderable token of Tim's culinary skill — a cold round 

 of spiced beef, and last, not least, a dish of wood-duck 

 hot from the gridiron. 



"By George," said Harry, "here's a feast for an epicure, 

 and I can find the appetite." 



"Find it" — said Forester, grinning, who, pretending to 

 eat nothing, or next to nothing, and not to care what was 

 sot before him, was really the greatest gourmet and heavi- 

 est feeder of the party — "Find it, Harry? it's quite new 

 to me that you ever lost it. When was it, hey?" 



"Arter he'd eat a hull roast pig, I reckon — leastwise 

 that might make Harry lose his'n; but I'll be darned if 

 two would be a sarcumstance to set before you, Frank, no 

 how. Here's A , too, he don't never eat." 



"These wood-duck are delicious," answered the Commo- 

 dore, who was very busily employed in stowing away his 

 provant, "What a capital bird it is, Harry." 



"Indeed, is it," said he, "and this is, me judice, the very 

 best way to eat it, red hot from the gridiron, cooked very 

 quick, and hrown on the outside, and full of gravy when 

 you cut ; with a squeeze of a lemon and a dash of cayenne 

 it is sublime. What say you. Forester?" 



"Oh, you won't ketch him sayin' uauthen, leastwise not 

 this half hour — but the way he'll keep a feedin' won't be 

 slow, I tell you — that's the way to judge how Forester 

 likes his grub — jest see how he takes hold on 't." 



"Are there many wood-duck about this season, Tom?" 

 asked Forester, affecting to be perfectly careless and in- 

 different to all that had passed. "Did von kill these vour- 

 self?" 



"There was a sight on them a piece back, but they're 

 gittin scase — pretty scase now, I tell you. Yes, I shot 

 these down by Aunt Sally's big spring-hole a Friday. I'd 

 been a lookin' round, you see, to find where the quail 

 kept afore you came up here — for I'd been expectin' you 

 a week and better — and I'd got in quite late, toward sun- 

 down, with an outsidin' bevy, down by the cedar swamp, 

 and druv them off into the big bog meadows, below 

 Sugar-loaf, and I'd killed quite a bunch on them — sixteen, 

 I reckon, Archer; and there wasn't but eighteen when I 

 lit on em — and it was gittin' pretty well dark when I, 

 came to the big spring, and little Dash was worn dead out. 



