"Tar'pin jes like a crab, Major, on'y got mo' meat to 'em. But you got
to know 'em fust to eat 'em. Now dis yer shell is de hot plate, an'
ye do all yo' eatin' right inside it," said Chad, dropping a spoonful
of butter, the juice of a lemon, and a pinch of salt into the impromptu
dish.
"Now, Major, take yo' fork an' pick out all dat black meat an' dip it
in de sauce, an' wid ebery mou'ful take one o' dem little yaller eggs.
Dat's de way _we_ eat tar'pin. Dis yer stewin' him up in pote
wine is scand'lous. Can't taste nuffin' but de wine. But dat's
_tar'pin._"
I followed Chad's directions to the word, picking the terrapin as I
would a crab and smothering the dainty bits in the hot sauce, until
only two empty shells and a heap of little bones were left to tell the
tale of my appetite.
"Gwine to crawl ober de fence, was ye?" I heard him say with a chuckle
as he bore away the debris. "What I tell ye? Whar am ye now?"
"Did Miss Nancy send those terrapin?" I asked, watching the old darky
drawing the cork of the new Madeira referred to in the colonel's note.
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