“What shall we have for breakfast?” asked Hope-Jones.
“Fried bacon and corn bread,” promptly answered Ferguson.
“But how shall we cook the bacon?” asked Harvey.
“I’ll show you;” and the Ohioan unstrapped his knapsack and took therefrom his tin plate, which he placed on the four stones.
“How’s that for a frying pan!”
They had taken certain provisions from Chicla, because the superintendent said it might be a couple of days before they could reach that part of the Montaña where game abounded, and the carrying of these edibles had devolved upon Harvey, his companions having burdened themselves with the canvas of the shelter-tent. Another minute, and a fragrant odor came from the dish that was resting over the flame.
“I wish the corn bread could be made hot,” said Harvey, as he proceeded with the further opening of his knapsack.
“It will be—in a jiffy,” was the reply. “Just clear away some of the fire on the other side.”
This was done, the sticks and embers being pushed back, and Ferguson commenced with his jack-knife, hollowing out a space in the thin soil. Taking Hope-Jones’s and Harvey’s tin plates, he placed the bread between them, then laying them in the shallow excavation, rims together, he raked over some earth and on top of this a layer of hot coals.
“By the time the bacon is cooked our bread will be ready,” he added.