“Chicken? What do you mean—chicken?” demanded Ned Slade, with just a slight note of impatience in his voice. Jerry, looking hastily through the letter, added:
“Tinny didn’t say anything about going into the chicken business, did he? Not that I remember. Anyhow, he isn’t in a chicken-raising country. He’s out in the tall timber where the only things they raise are Rocky Mountain goats. Chickens! How do you get that way, Chunky?”
The fat lad flushed, having drawn this much attention to himself, and, to justify his remark, he said:
“I didn’t mean it that way. You know, as well as I do, he didn’t propose to us to go out there to raise chickens. We could do that here at home a lot better.”
“Just what do you mean by harping on fowls?” asked Ned.
“I mean Tinny said in his letter that he was in a restaurant where they served him roast chicken and mushrooms, and he got to thinking of us and——”
“You mean he got to thinking of you!” and Ned exploded into a laugh, at which Bob Baker blushed a deeper pink.
“Oh, I see what Chunky means!” chuckled Jerry. “Tinny did speak of being in a restaurant eating chicken when he found himself remembering us and the measly feeds we sometimes got in the mustering-out camp. That’s what caused him to write us about the gold mine.”
“And you can make up your mind that Bob would pick out that part of the letter first!” exclaimed Ned. “That part about chicken! Did it make you hungry, Chunky?” he demanded, giving the stout youth a poke in his well-covered ribs.