“Sure,” answered Fenn. “How does meat pie strike you?”
“All right, as long as it isn’t made of rubber boots and flannel bandages,” answered Frank.
“Not this time,” declared Stumpy. “There’ll be no monkey-shines with this pie. We’ll have it hot for breakfast before we start off hunting.”
He was busy all the rest of that afternoon, and, judging by the time he spent over it, the pie was going to be an elaborate affair.
Fenn was the first one up the next morning. He tumbled out of his blankets, made a hurried toilette, and, a few minutes later was heard to excitedly cry out:
“Here! That’ll do you fellows! A joke’s a joke, but this is too much! Where did you put it, you lobsters?”
“Where did we put what?” asked Bart, sticking his head out of the tent flap. “Why this unseemly noise, Stumpy, my son?”
“You know well enough. Where’s the meat pie?”
“You don’t mean to tell us you’ve gone and walked in your sleep, and eaten that meat pie we were to have for breakfast; have you?” cried Ned.
“No, I haven’t; but some of you fellows have hidden it,” declared Fenn. “Come on, now. This is enough of that joke. Tell me where it is, Bart, and I’ll warm it up for breakfast.”