And the meal to which Dick called his chums a little later was certainly a good one—for boys out camping. There was a canned soup to start with, and then fried chicken.
“Fried chicken—think of that!” cried Tom. “Talk about being swell!”
“It’s only canned chicken, fried in butter, and seasoned a bit,” explained Dick modestly. “I opened some canned corn to go with it. Have some?”
“Sure!” there came a chorus, and three plates were quickly passed toward the amateur cook.
“One at a time,” he begged. “I’ve got some—”
He paused for a moment and then cried:
“The potatoes! They’re burning! I forgot ’em!”
He made a rush for the cooking tent, ignoring the out-stretched plates, and the others became aware of a scorching odor.
“Wow! but that’s mean!” exclaimed Dick ruefully, as he came back wiping the perspiration from his face. “They’re burned to nothing. The water all boiled off ’em. And they were sweets, too, the only ones we brought along,” he added.