"As to that," he murmured, "there's only a few things worth knowing.
If you can just forget the rest, you're all right."
"I see," she replied beneath her breath. "But--but it's got to be
plucked and cleaned and cooked first, hasn't it?"
"The chickin?" he laughed. "Oh, dear me, no! Cooked, yes, but not
plucked or cleaned in the sense you mean. That's what they do in
'ouses. Out here we have a better way. We just wrap it up in clay and
dig a 'ole and light a fire on top, and in a 'arf hour it's ready to
eat, tender, juicy, and sweet as a bit of 'oneycomb. Break open the
ball of clay, and the feathers all come away wiv it." And then he
produced from another pocket a fat, thick roll of yellow butter,
freshly made apparently, for it was wrapped in a clean white cloth.
They stared at that for a long time without a word.
"They go together," he explained, and the explanation seemed
sufficient as well as final. "And they come together too," he added
with a smile.
"Did the butter give itself to you as well as the chicken?" inquired
Judy. The Tramp nodded in the affirmative as he placed it beside him
on the trunk ready for use later.
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