"Better be getting your plates ready!" he shouted, turning them over with the knife to the tune of a mighty frizzling.
We all took the hint, and scattered to find flat stones for platters. 'Twas a singular assortment of kitchenware that we re-appeared with a few minutes later. Taking up the fried eggs with his knife, Weymouth tossed us each one, which we caught on our plates. Another batch was then broke into the spider, fried, and distributed like the first.
"Now then!" cried Kit. "Draw jack-knives, and dine!"
Several mouthfuls were eaten in silence.
"What think of 'em?" Weymouth asked, casting a sly glance around. "How do they go?"
"Rather oily!" grumbled Wade.
"Awful fresh!" Kit complained.
"Not a dust of salt in this camp!" Raed exclaimed.
"We never can live without any salt," said I. "Nothing will relish so fresh as these eggs."
"But where's your salt coming from?" Kit demanded.