Dick admitted that it was, and stooped to blow the fire into a blaze.

Here Henri uttered a cry of consternation, and stood speechless, with his mouth open.

“What’s the matter? what is’t?” cried Dick and Joe, seizing their rifles instinctively.

“De—­grub—­him—­be—­forgat!”

There was a look of blank horror, and then a burst of laughter from Dick Varley.  “Well, well,” cried he, “we’ve got lots o’ tea an’ sugar, an’ some flour; we can git on wi’ that till we shoot another buffalo, or a—­ha!”

Dick observed a wild turkey stalking among the willows as he spoke.  It was fully a hundred yards off, and only its head was seen above the leaves.  This was a matter of little moment, however, for by aiming a little lower he knew that he must hit the body.  But Dick had driven the nail too often to aim at its body; he aimed at the bird’s eye, and cut its head off.

“Fetch it, Crusoe.”

In three minutes it was at Dick’s feet, and it is not too much to say that in five minutes more it was in the pot.

As this unexpected supply made up for the loss of the meat which Henri had forgotten at their last halting-place, their equanimity was restored; and while the meal was in preparation Dick shouldered his rifle and went into the bush to try for another turkey.  He did not get one, however, but he shot a couple of prairie-hens, which are excellent eating.  Moreover, he found a large quantity of wild grapes and plums.  These were unfortunately not nearly ripe, but Dick resolved to try his hand at a new dish, so he stuffed the breast of his coat full of them.

After the pot was emptied, Dick washed it out, and put a little clean water in it.  Then he poured some flour in, and stirred it well.  While this was heating, he squeezed the sour grapes and plums into what Joe called a “mush,” mixed it with a spoonful of sugar, and emptied it into the pot.  He also skimmed a quantity of the fat from the remains of the turkey soup and added that to the mess, which he stirred with earnest diligence till it boiled down into a sort of thick porridge.

“D’ye think it’ll be good?” asked Joe gravely; “I’ve me doubts of it.”

“We’ll see.—­Hold the tin dish, Henri.”

“Take care of de fingers.  Ha! it looks magnifique—­superb!”

The first spoonful produced an expression on Henri’s face that needed not to be interpreted.  It was as sour as vinegar.

“Ye’ll ha’ to eat it yerself, Dick, lad,” cried Joe, throwing down his spoon, and spitting out the unsavoury mess.

“Nonsense,” cried Dick, bolting two or three mouthfuls, and trying to look as if he liked it.  “Try again; it’s not so bad as you think.”

“Ho-o-o-o-o!” cried Henri, after the second mouthful.  “Tis vinegre.  All de sugare in de pack would not make more sweeter one bite of it.”

Dick was obliged to confess the dish a failure, so it was thrown out after having been offered to Crusoe, who gave it one sniff and turned away in silence.  Then they mounted and resumed their journey.