“Would we?” cried Bob, and there was a hungry gleam in his eyes.
“Wa’al, I’ll git right t’ work. I do my own cookin’. I’ve got an oil stove. Git off your things, an’ I’ll git th’ meal. I dunno whether we’ll call it supper or brekfust, but it don’t much matter. I’ll be right back, an’ after ye eat I’ll make ye up some beds on th’ floor. It’s the best I kin do.”
“Oh, we’ll be glad to get them,” said Ned, “no matter what they are.”
The old man, with a quick glance at Professor Snodgrass, bustled from the room, and our friends proceeded to take off some of their wet garments, hanging them over chairs near an old-fashioned fire-place in which, in spite of the fact that it was summer, a blaze was cheerfully burning.
“This will dry us out,” observed Jerry, holding his benumbed hands to the flames.
“That’s right, git close to th’ fire,” remarked Mr. Buttle, as he came in a little later, leaving open the kitchen door, whence came the savory smell of ham and eggs, mingling with coffee. “I lit th’ fire when the storm come up.”
“Say, does it strike you that our host hasn’t the most pleasant face in the world?” asked Jerry of his chums, when the old man had again gone out.
“You shouldn’t look gift-horses in the mouth,” observed Ned.
“You can’t see his mouth—too many whiskers,” came from Bob with a chuckle. “I’m glad we’re going to feed, anyhow.”
“No, but seriously, I don’t like his looks,” went on the tall lad. “If we had any valuables I’d feel like putting them under my pillow, provided we get one when we go to bed.”