Owen built a fire while Allan lowered and stowed the sail, braced the boom, and set about preparing for the night.
All three boys were prodigiously hungry, and Owen worked with great zeal over his coffee, the smell of which was simply thrilling; over the bouillon, which was to be warmed; over the unpacking of the stores.
A flat stone was selected for a supper table, and in the last of the twilight, and side gleams from the fire, the boys attacked the spread with which Owen, assisted by the others, had decorated the paper covering of the stone.
“This is entirely too nice for sailors,” said Owen. “We are dudes. Think of a spotless—I mean a spotted—table-cloth like this, bouillon, cold roast beef, biscuits, sweet crackers, coffee, and fresh water.”
“You are spoiling us, Owen,” admitted Allan. “This is too good. And to think that there is lots more left.”
“Are you saving the pies for to-morrow?” asked McConnell.
“Sure,” declared Owen. “Do you mean to say you want pie after all this? Pretty soon, McConnell, you’ll be asking for the hard-boiled eggs we’ve got for breakfast.”
“It seems to me I never was so hungry,” said McConnell.
“Wait till the morning,” said Allan. “That’s when real hunger gets in its fine work.”
“That’s so, McConnell,” said Owen. “In the morning you could eat boiled dog.”