“Hold on, old chap. Wait a minute,” advised Bart, soothingly. “I guess it’s gone far enough. William, just hand out the other pudding, will you?”
The visitor, with a grin, took a covered dish from behind the stove, where it had been set to keep warm. He lifted off the cover, and displayed to the astonished Fenn the original plum pudding, smelling most delicious, and smoking hot.
“Try some of this,” said Ned. “Maybe it will be better.”
“But I—what—where—what makes—is it——” stammered Fenn, and then his chums burst into a laugh.
“Yes, it’s the original pudding,” explained Frank. “We just wanted to have a little fun with you, that’s all. We hid away the pudding you made, and, at the last minute, substituted one of our own that contained all the odds and ends we could pick up in camp, held together with a lot of dough. I guess we can throw it away now, and eat the real thing,” and he emptied his plate, and those of his companions, of the dubious mess, and dished out some of the real plum pudding.
“Ah! Um! This is something like!” murmured Ned, with his mouth full. “Great stuff, Stumpy!”
“Do you like it?” asked the now delighted Fenn.
“Sure!” came in an enthusiastic chorus, and the Christmas dinner was well rounded off by the pudding that Fenn had made with such care.
William spent the remainder of the day in camp with his friends. They went for a walk in the afternoon, did some shooting at targets, for Bart decreed that the game must have a holiday as well as the hunters, and at night, inside the snug tent, with the fire blazing brightly in the stove, and the cold wind blowing outside, they spent a jolly evening, singing songs and telling stories.
William bade his friends good-bye the next morning, and started off through the woods, with his pack upon his back. The chums felt a little lonesome after his departure, but it soon wore off, for there was much to do, to get in wood and water, straighten up the camp, and prepare for a storm, which, according to all the evidences, was soon to break.