Part 73 (1/2)

Dexter had made pets of so many creatures that he shrank from inflicting pain, and he looked on at last with something like horror as Bob untied his kerchief, shot all the cray-fish out on the heathy ground, and then, sc.r.a.ping back the glowing embers with his foot till he had left a bare patch of white ash, he rapidly thrust in the captives, which began to hiss and steam and whistle directly.

The whistling noise might easily have been interpreted to mean a cry of pain, but the heat was so great that doubtless death was instantaneous, and there was something in what the boy said in reply to Dexter's protests.

”Get out! It don't hurt 'em much.”

”But you might have killed them first.”

”How was I to kill 'em first?” snarled Bob, as he sat tailor fas.h.i.+on and poked the cray-fish into warmer places with a piece of burning stick.

”Stuck your knife into them.”

”Well, wouldn't that have hurt 'em just as much?”

”Let them die before you cooked them.”

”That would hurt 'em ever so much more, and took ever so much longer.”

”Well I shan't like to eat them,” said Dexter.

”More for me, then. I say! don't they smell good?”

Dexter had a whiff just then, and they certainly did smell tempting to a hungry boy; but he made up his mind to partake only of bread and b.u.t.ter, and kept to his determination for quite five minutes after Bob had declared the cookery complete, and picked the tiny lobsters out of the hot ashes with his burnt stick.

”They're too hot to touch yet,” he said. ”Wait a bit and I'll show you.

Cut the bread.”

Dexter obeyed with alacrity, and was soon feasting away on what might very well be called ”Boy's Delight,” the honest bread and b.u.t.ter which has helped to build up our stalwart race.

Bob helped himself to a piece of bread, spread it thickly with b.u.t.ter, and, withdrawing a little way from the fire, hooked a hot cray-fish to his side, calmly picking out the largest; and as soon as he could handle it he treated it as if it were a gigantic shrimp, dividing the sh.e.l.l in the middle by pulling, and holding up the delicate hot tail, which drew easily from its armour-like case.

”Only wants a bit of salt,” he cried, smacking his lips over the little _bonne bouche_, and then proceeding to pick out the contents of the claws, and as much of the body as he deemed good to eat.

Dexter looked on with a feeling of disgust, while Bob laughed at him, and finished four of the cray-fish, throwing the sh.e.l.ls over his shoulder towards the river.

Then Dexter picked up one, drew off the sh.e.l.l, smelt it, tasted it, and five minutes later he was as busy as Bob, though when they finished the whole cooking he was seven fish behind.

”Ain't they 'lishus?” cried Bob.

”Yes,” said Dexter, unconsciously repeating his companion's first remark, ”only want a bit of salt.”

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

AN AWKWARD PURSUER.

It was wonderful how different the future looked after that picnic dinner by the river-side. The bread and b.u.t.ter were perfect, and the cray-fish as delicious as the choicest prawns. The water that glided past the bank was like crystal; the evening sun lit up the scene with orange and gold; and as the two boys lolled restfully upon the bank listening to the murmur of the running water, the twitter of birds, and the distant lowing of some ox, they thoroughly appreciated everything, even the rest after their tiring night's work and toilsome day.

”Are we going on now!” said Dexter at last.

”What for?” asked Bob, as he lay upon his back, with his head in a tuft of heath.