"Very!" said I.
"Did ye put in any salt or pepper, Jerry?" she demanded.
"Drat my whiskers, never a shake nor pinch!" he exclaimed, whereupon
Diana sighed, shook her head in silent reprobation and vanished into
the dingy tent as one acquainted with its mysteries, leaving the
Tinker gazing at the pot quite crestfallen.
"A man can't always be for ever a-remembering everything, Ann!" said
he, as she reappeared. "An' besides, now I come to think on it, I
aren't so partial to pepper an' salt--"
"A stew should never boil, Jerry!" she admonished.
"Why, that's a matter o' taste," he retorted. "I always b'ile my stoos
and uncommon tasty I find 'em--"
"And a little thickening will improve it more," she continued
serenely. "And if you had cut the rabbits a little smaller, it would
ha' been better, Jerry. Still, I daresay I can make it eatable, so go
an' talk to Peregrine and leave me to do it."
Obediently the Tinker came and seated himself beside me.
"Friend Peregrine," said he, jerking his thumb to the busy figure at
the fire, "I stooed rabbits afore she was born--ah, hundreds on 'em!"
"And boiled 'em hard as stones!" she added.
"I've throve on b'iled rabbits, Peregrine friend, rabbits and other
things cooked by these two hands, lived and throve on 'em these
fifty-odd years--and you see me today a man hale and hearty--"
"Which is a wonder!" interpolated Diana without glancing up from her
labour.
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