Travels and Adventures of Monsieur Violet. Фредерик Марриет
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“Come,” roared he, “come, ye rascally red devils, do your worst without marcy, for I am lame and hungry.”
There was something noble in his words and pathetic in the I action. Roche, putting his hand on his shoulder, whispered some Irish words in his ear, and the poor fellow almost cut a caper. “Faith,” he said, “if you are not a Cork boy you are the devil; but devil or no, for the sake of the old country, give us something to eat—to me and that poor Welsh dreamer. I fear your hellish yell has taken the life out of him.”
Such was not the case. At the words “something to eat,” the fellow opened his eyes with a stare, and exclaimed—
“The Welsh Indians, by St. David!”
We answered him with a roar of merriment that rather confused him, and his companion answered—
“Ay! Welsh Indians or Irish Indians, for what I know. Get up, will ye, ye lump of flesh, and politely tell the gentlemen that we have tasted nothing for the last three days.”
Of course we lost no time in lighting a fire and bringing our horses. The meat was soon cooked, and it was wonderful to see how quickly it disappeared in the jaws of our two new friends. We had yet about twelve pounds of it, and we were entering a country where game would be found daily, so we did not repine at their most inordinate appetites, but, on the contrary, encouraged them to continue. When the first pangs of hunger were a little soothed, they both looked at us with moist and grateful eyes.
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