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It's a one-rib affair, like an overgrown chop, and it reposes lonesome in the middle of a big silver platter. It's done, all right. Couldn't have been more so if it had been cooked in a blast-furnace. Even the bone was charred through. Westy he gazes at it in his mild, helpless way, and pokes it doubtful with the carvin'-fork. "I say, Cyr er Snee," says he, "what's this?"