We fished all day and played Indian and fixed up a raft out of a couple of old logs and poled ourselves around. In the afternoon we went over on the island and gathered about a bushel of butternuts apiece, but they weren’t any good, having laid all winter.
“We’ll have h-h-ham for supper,” Mark said. “We kin warm it up, and it’ll be pretty good with fish.”
We poled the raft across, carrying our nuts, and made for the cave. Mark went to work building the fire again, Plunk and Binney gathered wood, while I riffled around inside getting things ready for the cooking. I found most of the stuff all right, because Mark had put it away, and he always puts things away careful, but when it came to the ham I couldn’t put my hand on it to save my life.
“Where did you put that ham?” I sang out to Mark.
“Right in that jar,” he told me, “next to the basket.”
“It ain’t here,” I called, after I had looked again to make sure.
“It’s got to be,” says he, his voice a little excited, “because I put it there.”
“Well, it ain’t. Come and see for yourself.”
He came in and rummaged around, but not a sign of the ham could he discover. His face was sober when he looked up at me and says, “Is anythin’ else m-missin’?”
Together we went over the things. Everything was there till we got to the bread. All together we had four loaves. We’d used most of one, and there ought to have been three left, but there wasn’t. There were only two.