“Never mind; let us carry every one of them to the island; it is cool weather; they will keep till you and I go home, and then we can get our mothers to make us another pie, to remember this holiday by; and Charlie and his folks can have another pie after we are gone.”
“Now for home and the Indians’ place,” said Charlie.
They took to their oars, and rowing with a good will, reached the island some time before noon. The instant the canoe touched the beach Charlie leaped from it, and, rushing into the house, bawled out, “Mother, put on the pot! They’re coming with the birds! O, lashings of them! I’ll make a fire!” and ran for the wood-pile. Charlie crammed the brush under the pot to heat water to scald the birds, that they might pick them the faster.
John and Fred now came in with the lower button of their jackets buttoned up, and their bosoms, pockets, arms, and hats full of dead birds. They unloaded on the middle of the hearth, and went back for more.
“Boys,” asked Sally, “have you eaten your luncheon?”
No; they couldn’t stop; forgot it.
“Then eat it now, and have your dinner on the birds.”
“Yes,” said Charlie; “and then start off to camp out.”
The boys ate their luncheon while the water was heating, and then began to pick and dress the birds; and, when Ben came in, he helped them. When prepared, they looked like balls of butter, they were so covered with yellow fat.
While the pie was baking, John began to show the boys how Tige would fetch and carry, and give any one his paw to shake, and dive to bring up things from the bottom.