“Oh, Bart’s a good shot,” answered Ned proudly, and not at all jealous. But before long Bart was destined to make a more remarkable shot than that.
As the boys had said there was to be practically nothing in the way of giving each other presents while in camp. Fenn, for the joke of the thing, rigged up a small Christmas tree, on which were hung pretended gifts.
“Well, let’s get to bed early to-night,” suggested Frank on Christmas eve.
“And get up a good appetite for my plum pudding,” suggested Fenn. “It’s a dandy! I’ve got it all made, and all I have to do is to warm it, and make the sauce. It’s in that box,” and he pointed proudly to one in the cook tent.
Christmas was ushered in with a snow storm, which made the woods a place of beauty. It was not very cold, and the boys, jumping from their beds, wished each other the joys of the season.
Most of the work of getting ready the dinner had been done the day previous, so there was little work Christmas morning. They went hunting, but did not see anything to shoot, and, in fact they did not need anything, as the larder was well stocked.
“Now,” ordered Fenn, on their return, “get a move on, fellows. Get the table set, and I’ll look after the other things,” for the turkey and some partridges had been partly cooked the day previous, and needed only a final turn in the oven. Several dainties had been brought from home, in anticipation of this feast, and they were now set out.
Such a dinner as it was! Eaten in the midst of a silent wilderness, with the keen sharp air of winter all about, the boys had appetites that would have been the envy and despair of a person troubled with dyspepsia.
“Well, have you had enough, fellows?” asked Fenn, as he stood over the platters of turkey and partridge.