After this was over, the boys held a little private jubilation of their own in the little cabin where they were quartered with Mr. Fennington. He had been away during the contest, but he returned shortly afterward, and laughingly congratulated Jimmy on his newly won honors.
“How do you feel?” he inquired. “Do you think you could manage another piece of pie? I’ll see that you have a large piece if you think you can.”
“No, sir! I’ve had enough pie to last me for a good while to come,” declared Jimmy positively. “I’ll be ashamed to look a pie in the face. For the next week or so I’ll have to stick to my favorite doughnuts for dessert.”
“Well, you did nobly, Doughnuts, and I love you more than ever,” declared Bob. “You were up against a field that anybody might be proud to beat.”
“And the best part of it, to me, is the feeling that our confidence in Jimmy’s eating powers was justified,” declared Joe. “After all the wonderful exhibitions he’s given in the past, it would have been terrible if he hadn’t come up to scratch to-night.”
“The way that fellow they call Jack started off, I never thought you had a chance, Jimmy,” confessed Herb.
“If he could have held that pace, I wouldn’t have had a look-in,” admitted Jimmy. “I figured he’d have to slow down pretty soon, though. ‘Slow but sure’ is my motto.”
“How would you like to take a nice three-mile sprint now?” asked Herb mischievously.
“Three mile nothing!” exclaimed Jimmy scornfully. “I couldn’t run three yards right now. I think I’ll lie down and give my digestion a chance,” and in a few minutes he was peacefully snoring.
The next morning he showed no ill effects from the prodigious feast, but ate his usual hearty breakfast. The others were forced to the conclusion that his table ability was even greater than they had suspected, and from that time on they firmly believed him to be invincible in his particular department.