Eleven“I do declare,” said Brewster, considering the hunk of dripping flesh in his hand, cooked on the hearth to what he believed to be perfection, “I enjoy female meat more than I do the male.”
Curly munched on his own portions in silence. They sat on the floor in front of the flames and Curly, having found an old dust sheet in one of the other rooms, laid it down and had done his best to present something of a banquet for them both with plates and cutlery and some chipped cups for their water. He gave Brewster a meaningful look. “I couldn't have cut Arthur up anyway.”
“No, I wasn't meaning him – Jesus, Curly. No. I don't believe I could have eaten our old friend, not even if we were close to starving.”
With a sudden violent jerk of the arm, Curly hurled his piece of meat into the fire
