“Well, if it hadn’t been for Tom, you might not have come out all right,” said Jack, more than half seriously.
That was the extent of their luck for that day, however, except that both Bert and George secured some fine snapshots. When Sam had departed with the slain deer, the boys found a good place to stop, and build a fire to make coffee. They ate their lunch with such appetites as come only from life in the open, and, having finished, once more they set out on the trail.
But, though Jack, Bert and George each hoped for a repetition of Tom’s luck, in some modified form, it was not to be.
The boy hunters adopted all the suggestions of Sam, in looking for more game, but though they saw signs of it, the game itself had disappeared, at least for the time being.
“But we’ve got other days ahead of us,” suggested Tom. “We don’t have to go back for more than two weeks, and that will give us plenty of chances.”
They reached Camp No. 2 very tired, but satisfied with their day’s trip. And they brought with them appetites that made Jack, who was temporarily doing the cooking, wish his chums had left part of their hunger in the woods.
“What! More beans?” he cried to Bert, who passed his plate for the third time. “Can’t you eat anything but beans?”
“Don’t need to, when they’re cooked as good as this, old man,” was the laughing answer. “That molasses you put in just gave ’em the right flavor.”
“I’ll leave it out next time,” grumbled Jack. “I want a chance to get a bite myself.”
The meal went merrily on, and then came a delightful evening spent in the flickering blaze of the log fire, talking over the events of the day. Bert had developed his picture of the deer, and found that it would make a good print. Tom was dreaming of the time when he would get back the mounted head to hang on the wall of his den at home, as a memento of the trip.