Another security against roguery
was the permanent residence upon the premises of their chief, Tonoi.
On our return to Martair in the afternoon, we found the doctor and
Zeke making themselves comfortable. The latter was reclining on the
ground, pipe in mouth, watching the doctor, who, sitting like a Turk,
before a large iron kettle, was slicing potatoes and Indian turnip,
and now and then shattering splinters from a bone; all of which, by
turns, were thrown into the pot. He was making what he called
"Bullock broth."
In gastronomic affairs, my friend was something of an artist; and by
way of improving his knowledge, did nothing the rest of the day but
practise in what might be called Experimental Cookery: broiling and
grilling, and deviling slices of meat, and subjecting them to all
sorts of igneous operations. It was the first fresh beef that either
of us had tasted in more than a year.
"Oh, ye'll pick up arter a while, Peter," observed Zeke toward night,
as Long Ghost was turning a great rib over the coals - "what d'ye
think, Paul?"
"He'll get along, I dare say," replied I; "he only wants to get those
cheeks of his tanned." To tell the truth, I was not a little pleased
to see the doctor's reputation as an invalid fading away so fast;
especially as, on the strength of his being one, he had promised to
have such easy times of it, and very likely, too, at my expense.
