The next thing Larry knew he was being roused by old Martin’s vigorous shakes. Something cold was pressing against his cheek,—the black muzzle of one of the malamoots. Martin and the big dog were standing over him, the man laughing and the dog wagging his bushy tail. It seemed to the boy that he had scarcely closed his eyes, but when he had rubbed them open he knew that he must have been asleep some little time, for many things seemed changed.
It was night now, and the stars were out. But inside the tent it was warm and cozy, for before the open flap a cheerful fire was burning. The odor of coffee reached his nostrils and he could hear the bacon frying over the fire, and these things reminded him that he was hungry again.
“Sit right up to the table and begin,” Martin said to him, pointing to a row of cooking utensils and two tin plates on the ground in front of the tent. “Every one for himself, and Old Nick take the hindmost.”
No second invitation was necessary. In a moment he was bending over a plate heaped with bacon and potatoes, while the big malamoots sat watching him wistfully keeping an expectant eye on Martin as he poured the coffee. Such potatoes, such bacon, and such coffee the boy had never tasted. Even the soggy bread which Martin had improved by frying in some bacon fat, seemed delicious. This being shipwrecked was not so bad after all.
Old Martin, seated beside him and busy with his heaping plate seemed to read his thoughts.
“Not such a bad place, is it?” he volunteered presently.
“Bad?” the boy echoed. “It’s about the best place I ever saw. Only perhaps it will get lonesome if we have to wait long,” he added thoughtfully.
“Wait?” repeated Martin, poising his fork in the air. “Wait for who and for what, do you suppose, boy?”
“Well, aren’t we going to wait for some one to come for us?” the boy inquired.
Old Martin emptied his plate, drank his third cup of coffee, and threw a couple of sticks on the fire before answering.