"This doesn't count," sputtered the general, red as fury.
"You gave us your parole if we'd untie you," jeered Bill. "And we did."
"But you tied us up again."
"We didn't say anything about that. You said if we'd untie you, so you could eat, you wouldn't run away. Well, we untied you, didn't we?"
"That isn't fair. You know what we meant," retorted Fitz.
"We know what you said," they laughed.
"Aw, cut it out," growled the man, from his own fire. "You make too much noise. I'm tired."
"Chuck," called Walt, for supper.
They stuck us between them, and we all ate. Whew, but it was a dirty camp. The dishes weren't clean and the stuff to eat was messy, and the fellows all swore and talked as bad as they could. It was a shame—and it seemed a bigger shame because here in the park everything was intended to be quiet and neat and ought to make you feel good.
After supper they quarreled as to who would wash the dishes, and finally one washed and one wiped, and the rest lay around and smoked pipes and cigarettes. Over at his side of the little park the man had rolled up and was still. But I knew that he was watching, because he was smoking, too.