The dinner, or more
properly the supper, was soon completed, when Hans concluded that he
was too unwell to eat anything. The squaw was somewhat surprised when
Miss Prescott, after being awakened from a feigned sleep, turned her
head away from the tempting food in disgust.
"You sick too?" she asked.
"No--no--no," shutting her eyes and turning her back upon her.
"I wouldn't coax her to eat, my good, dear frow," said Hans. "Let de
little Dutchmen eat it; dey're hungry enough."
In answer to a shrill call, Quanonshet and Madokawandock came tumbling
in, and fell upon the food like a couple of wolves. After two or three
mouthfuls they stopped and smacked their lips as if there was something
peculiar in the taste of their fish, and Hans' heart thumped as he saw
the mother do the same. To forestall any inquiries, he remarked that
he had caught the fish in another portion of the stream, and perhaps
they might taste bitter, but he guessed "dey was all right." This
satisfied them, and in a few minutes more there was nothing left but a
few bones. Thus far all went well.
As the sun descended in the western sky, and the magnificent American
twilight gathered upon the forest and river, the excited Hans Vanderbum
could scarcely conceal his impatience and anxiety. Never before, since
his marriage, had he been in such a predicament, and never again, he
hoped, would he feel the misery that was now torturing him.
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