VII

HOW THE COMBYS TASTED

At this moment the perfume of cookery
became intolerable and frenzying, and I
rushed out and sat down to have a good cry.
There was a sound of scuffling inside the
crater. The inner door of my room, which
I had hastily shut in going out, burst open
with a crash; and out rushed a Tune.

It was neither animal nor vegetable—it
was edible. It was the porcupineapple
escaping from the spit, half done. In its
mouth was a lemon.

My hunger maddened me: I fell upon it,
half done as it was, and ate the whole of it.
My appetite grew stronger with this relish.

“T mean to eat the whole of ’em,” I
screamed, ‘all the curious Combinations—
every man Jack of em. I’m going to have

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