A minute later he was sousing his face in a big tin wash-basin, and then
drying it on a towel that had once been a burlap bag. But he had noticed
that it was clean--as clean as the pink-flushed face of Marie. And the
Frenchman himself, with all his hair, and his beard, and his rough-worn
clothing, was as clean as the burlap towelling. Being a stranger,
suddenly plunged into a life entirely new to him, these things impressed
David.
When they sat down to the table--Thoreau sitting for company, and Marie
standing behind them--he was at a loss at first to know how to begin.
His plate was of tin and a foot in diameter, and on it was a three-pound
mallard duck, dripping with juice and as brown as a ripe hazel-nut. He
made a business of arranging his sleeves and drinking a glass of water
while he watched the famished Little Missioner. With a chuckle of
delight Father Roland plunged the tines of his fork hilt deep into the
breast of the duck, seized a leg in his fingers, and dismembered the
luscious anatomy of his plate with a deft twist and a sudden pull. With
his teeth buried in the leg he looked across at David. David had eaten
duck before; that is, he had eaten of the family _anas boschas_
disguised in thick gravies and highbrow sauces, but this duck that he
ate at Thoreau's table was like no other duck that he had ever tasted in
all his life.
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