There could riot be a better place for a hunting-box than that
cave.
We soon had a glorious fire roaring round the kennel-pot,
which, having been well scoured with sand and water, was to make
the soup. Such soup! - shades of gourmands, if ye only smelt
that cookery! The pot held six gallons, and the whole elk, except
a few steaks, was cut up and alternately boiled down in sections.
The flesh was then cut up small for the pack, the marrowbones
reserved for "master," and the soup was then boiled until it had
evaporated to the quantity required. A few green chilies, onions
in slices fried, and a little lime-juice, salt, black pepper and
mushroom ketchup, and - in fact, there is no rise thinking of it,
as the soup is not to be had again. The fire crackled and blazed
as the logs were heaped upon it as night grew near, and lit up
all the nooks and corners of the old cave. Three beds in a row
contained three sleepy mortals. The hounds snored and growled,
and then snored again. The servants jabbered, chewed betel,
spit, then jabbered a little more, and at last everything and
everybody was fast asleep within the cave.
The next morning we had an early breakfast and started, the
village people marching off in good spirits with the loads. I was
now en route for Bertram's patinas, which lay exactly over the
mountain on the opposite side of the river.
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