"There, Frank," cried Harry, who had superintended the storage of the
whole with nice scrutiny, "those chaps will keep there as sound as
roaches, till we get to young Tom's at Ramapo; you cannot think what
work I had, trying in vain to save them, before I hit upon this method;
I tried hops, which I have known in England to keep birds in an
extraordinary manner--for, what you'll scarce believe, I once ate a
Ptarmigan, the day year after it was killed, which had been packed with
hops, in perfect preservation, at Farnley, Mr. Fawke's place in
Yorkshire!--and I tried prepared charcoal, and got my woodcock down to
New York, looking like chimney sweeps, and smelling--"
"What the devil difference does it make to you now, Archer, I'd be
pleased to know!" interposed Tom; "what under heaven they smells like--a
man that eats cock with their guts in, like you does, needn't stick now,
I reckon, for a leetle mite of a stink!"
"Shut up, you old villain," answered Harry, laughing, "bring the milk
punch, and get your great coat on, if you mean to go with us; for it's
quite keen this morning, I can tell you; and we must be stirring too,
for the sun will be up before we get to Teachman's.
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