“Shall we start in plucking the feathers off these birds, Giraffe?”
“Might as well, if we mean to eat ’em; and speakin’ for my own feelings I want to say that a partridge’d go mighty well about now. Yum! yum! get busy with one, and I’ll tackle the other.”
Both boys knew how to do the job of plucking the birds, and soon had the feathers flying.
Both of them were feeling a thousand per cent better than before; and Bumpus even hummed as he worked. Giraffe’s thoughts very naturally kept along the line of his recent triumph. He had labored so long, and against such a handicap, that he might well be excused for feeling proud of his success.
“Good little bow!” he muttered; “you did the business, all right, didn’t you? The trouble was, I didn’t just know how to handle you; but I’ve got it down pat now, and I’ll never forget again, never. Wonder what the boys’ll say when they hear about it? And Bumpus, it came in right pat, didn’t it?”
“I should say it did, Giraffe,” replied the other, enthusiastically; “when we didn’t have a single match, night here, cold as the dickens, wolves howling pretty soon, and no way of cooking these plump partridges. Why, if you’d gone and arranged all the particulars, I don’t believe you could a had it hit us at a better time. It’s just great, that’s what.”
“And the cream is on you, Bumpus.”
“Shucks! who cares for that? Why, a little while ago I’d given all the spending money I expect to get as my share of the rewards for returnin’ those lost bank papers, for just one little penny box of matches. Why, I’ll be only too happy to treat the whole crowd six times over, after this. There, my bird’s done, Giraffe.”
“Same here; and now how are we agoin’ to cook ’em?” the other scout remarked.
Bumpus looked at him rather blankly.