While we talked he ate his luncheon, and a downright gargantuan luncheon
it was, backed by an appetite which if it were offered to the highest
bidder on the New York Stock Exchange would, I am convinced, bring at
least ten thousand dollars in cash. It even made me envious.

There were three huge corned-beef sandwiches, three hard-boiled eggs, a
pickle six inches long and fat to boot, four doughnuts so big that they
resembled pitching quoits, a bottle of coffee and milk, a quarter of a
pie, and, to cap the climax, an immense raw onion. It was worth a long
journey to see Bill eat that onion. He took out his clasp knife, and
after stripping off the papery outer shell, cut the onion into thick
dewy slices. Then he opened one of the sandwiches and placed several of
them on the beef, afterward sprinkling them with salt from a small paper
parcel. Having restored the top slice of bread he took a moon-shaped
bite out of one end of this glorified sandwich.

"I like onions," said he.

When we first sat down he had offered to share his luncheon with me but
I told him I had just been to dinner, and I observed that he had no
difficulty in taking care of every crumb in his "bucket." It was
wonderful to see.

Having finished his luncheon he went down to the brook and got a drink,
and then sat down comfortably with his back among the ferns of the
roadside, crossed his legs, and lit his pipe. There was a healthy and
wholesome flush in his face, and as he blew off the first cloud of smoke
he drew a sigh of complete comfort and looked around at me with a lordly
air such as few monarchs, no matter how well fed, could have bettered.