One entire end of the tent had been thrown open to reveal these delights, and when Arnold opened his eyes he saw the gigantic figure of his Scottish host doing its best to fill the space. There was a good-humoured smile on the man's face—a smile that betokened a heart of the largest dimensions.
Bob soon roused his chum, who was buried in a blanket.
"What's the matter?" questioned the latter, as he unrolled from the coverings.
"Can you not smell it?" demanded Mackintosh.
"Fried bacon and coffee—yes—ripping!" was the reply as Alf began to move, being inspired to haste by the odour that proceeded from the camp-fire beyond the tent, where Haggis was busy cooking.
Mackintosh gave a snort of assumed contempt.
"Bacon and coffee! Who thinks o' bacon and coffee on a morning like this? Fegs! but have you no' ears for the birds, nor nostrils for the scents of Nature? Man, but I'd sooner have a sniff o' the backwoods——"
"Than a mouthful of bacon? Not I," chimed in Alf merrily, at which the man laughed heartily as he turned on his heel.
"I'm thinking that there's very little poetry in a hungry stomach," he said. "Well, 'get a gait on.' You'll find a wash-hand basin behind the tent, and breakfast'll be ready when you are."
The boys needed no second bidding, and it was not many minutes before they were ready to show how well they could appreciate the half-breed's culinary art.