Fenn, meanwhile, true to his promise, was busy over the plum pudding, which, he said, would take several days to make.
“I should think it would,” remarked Ned, one afternoon, when Fenn was occupied with chopping bowl and knife in the cook tent. “It’s a wonder you didn’t start last Fourth of July, Stumpy.”
“That’s all right, I know how to make this pudding,” asserted Fenn, with a superior air.
“He’s mighty proud of it,” whispered Frank to Ned, as they moved away. “I wish we could play some joke on him.”
“Maybe we can.”
“I’ll think of one,” went on Frank, who had not yet gotten over his failure with the pancakes, for which he partly blamed Fenn.
William arrived that Saturday afternoon, and was soon made to feel at home in the camp. He was given a spare gun, and on the Monday before Christmas, all five went for a hunt, though they did not expect to go far from camp.
They bagged some small game, and Bart made a remarkable kill of a brace of partridges, getting one each with his left and right barrels, when it seemed that both birds would escape.
“That’s fine shooting, Bart,” remarked William.