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Rh stuff to sink an Indiaman, and left it packed in snow in a cool place in the woods.

The day of the grand barbecue came.

First our chief he put on a poor face, and trotted out regular old played-out native dishes—bong-bong, and maboo-taboo fried cush-cush—common dishes as a third-rate chief might have 'most any day. I see the other chief's lip curlin' up till it most hid his snub-nose—with scorn, and with pride in his own cook. But our chief was just a-leadin' old Succotash on—foolin' him, you see.

Then come dessert. Our chief he remarks careless and easy:

"I have a new dish, royal brother, if you will try it?" "Don't care if I do," says the other, as if not carin' particular about it.

Our chief he whacked a gong, and in came a string of mahogany slaves proudly supportin' fancy calabashes loaded with that outlandish ice-cream.

"What, may I ask, is this?" asks the royal guest, a trifle oneasy, mistrustin' the other royal humbug was a-savin' his trumps for the last trick.

"Moonface chill-puddin'!" says our chief, impressive and grand.

It was set out, and at the word o' command every noble guest dipped into his calabash. Words o' mine can't describe it. I'd have to talk French to do it. It was like the finish of a tub-race. When I saw them all a-eatin' fast when they could, and a-tryin' to warm their froze noses when they could n't, I nudged Snowball on the sly.

"Cook," I whispers, "we 'll start now, I guess. Those fellers don't mean to stop as long as they can lift a spoon—and I'm afraid they 'll overdo this thing. If we waits till dyspepsy sets in, we 'll never see Hail Columbia any more."

He saw the sense o' my remark, and we got out and scooted. I hoped they would n't eat more than human natur' would stand—