Spurling hailed Percy. "Want to lend a hand, Whittington?"
"No!" refused Percy, shortly.
Entering the cabin, he made a dry lunch on cold biscuit and soda-crackers, then threw himself on his bunk and began reading. The afternoon dragged on. At five Filippo came in and began to peel potatoes and slice ham for supper; soon they were frying in the spider. The smell was pleasant in Percy's nostrils.
Half an hour later in came the others, tired and hungry. The fish had been finished. All sat down at the table, Percy, uninvited, drawing up his soap-box with the rest. Nobody said anything to him, but he ate with a relish.
The meal over, Spurling turned to him with a serious face. It was plain he had something of importance on his mind.
"Whittington," said he, "I've been talking matters over with Budge and Throppy, and we're all agreed it's time we came to an understanding. Things can't go on in this way any longer. To put the matter in a nutshell, we can't afford to have you living off us and not working. You've got to do your share or quit. That's all there is to it."
Percy reddened with wrath. Nobody but John P. Whittington had ever dared to speak like that to him before.
"What do you mean by making such talk to me?" he demanded. "You needn't be afraid but you'll be well paid for every meal I've eaten in this old shack!"
"That isn't the point at all," said Spurling. "I gave your father fair warning what it would be when you came out here. We're not running any Waldorf!"
Percy gave a derisive laugh.