- end_line
- 8162
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:15.153Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 8129
- text
- Now, there were no thieves in Martair; but then, the people of the
valley were bribed to be honest. It was a regular business transaction
between them and the planters. In consideration of so many potatoes “to
them in hand, duly paid,” they were to abstain from all depredations
upon the plantation. 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.
- title
- Chunk 2