Allen had been bending over the fire while all this talk was going on. He now looked up to remark:
“Guess he stuck several potatoes in his bag, too, before he started out,” and he held up a couple of blackened skins, showing that the interior had been gauged out after the potatoes had been baked in the hot ashes.
“Good for Bumpus, he’s learning to take care of himself fast,” cried Thad.
“That isn’t all,” remarked Allan, smiling.
“What next?” asked Thad.
“Bumpus shows he’s bound to be something of a hunter yet,” declared Allan, “and what he learned up in Maine has been in his mind ever since.”
“Do you mean about leaving fires burning when breaking camp, and the danger of the wind carrying the hot ashes among the dead leaves?” the scoutmaster went on to say, for he had eyes of his own, and had been watching Allan’s actions even while talking with the others.
“That’s just what I do mean,” the other continued. “In the first place Bumpus knew enough to make his camp close to running water, so he could get a drink whenever he wanted it.”
“I see he did,” Thad went on to say, glancing toward the gurgling little stream that ran not twenty feet away.
“And when he left here this morning,” continued Allan, “he made sure to carry water from the creek and sprinkle the fire till it was dead. Look, you can see for yourself that it’s been wet down.”