Rabelais's quarter of an hour began to hang heavily on us. Washington was equal to the occasion: taking a survey of the tent, he nodded approvingly and remarked, "Good tepee." "Not bad this weather." "Good eyes!" said Washington in a burst of enthusiasm. These two simple words in their Homeric immensity of expression meant all this: "The fire made on the ground in our Indian lodges fills them with continual smoke, and consequently we Indians suffer very much from sore eyes. Now, your little stove, while it warms the tent much better than a fire, does not smoke, and your eyes are not injured." Our habitual table, a small box, was not constructed on the extension plan. It would not accommodate three. So Hustleburger handed directly to each guest a tin cup of macaroni soup. Washington disposed of the liquid in a very short time, but the elusive nature of the macaroni rather troubled him. We showed him how to overcome its slippery tendency. Smacking his lips, he said, with a broad smile, "Good! What you call him?" "Macaroni." "Maclony? Good! Maclony--maclony." he continued, repeating the word to fix it in his memory. Our only vegetable was some canned asparagus. Washington was delighted with it after he had been initiated into the mystery of its consumption. He did not stop at the white. "What you call--_him_?" "Asparagus." "Spalagus--spalagus? Goo-oo-d!" "Did you never eat asparagus before, Washington?" "Never eat him--nev' see him. Spalagus--spalagus! Goo-oo-d!" Hustleburger now brought in the dessert, which consisted of canned currant-jelly, served in the can. Each guest helped himself from the original package, using a "hard tack" for a dessert-plate, _more antiquo_. Washington was bidden to help himself. Before doing so, however, he wished to test the substance placed before him, and, taking a little on the end of his spoon, he carried it to his lips. Then an expression of intense enjoyment overspread his dusky face; his black eyes sparkled like diamonds; his full lips were wreathed in a smile. "Ah! goo-oo-oo-d!" he cried, with a mouthful of _o_'s. "What you call HIM?" "Jelly." "Yelly? Ah! yelly goo-oo-ood! Me--like--yelly--much." And he helped himself plentifully. A smell of burning woollen became unpleasantly noticeable. Washington still had the stove between his legs: it was red-hot. He never moved, but ate "yelly." "Washington, you're burning!" cried the lieutenant. Washington smiled. "Much wah-r-rum!" he remarked in the coolest manner possible. "Throw open the front, then." A long, shrill cry now rang through the silence and the darkness. Washington jumped up suddenly, ran out of the tent, and uttered a cry in response so similar that it might pass for an echo of the first. Then, returning, he said, "He call. He--ready--put--dead man--down. Come! Me--come back--eat--yelly."