They sat down to supper soon after that and all hands agreed that it was an excellent meal. What appealed to their appetites most were the waffles, real old southern waffles, the kind that mother didn't make. A jug of molasses was produced as a surprise. Such a feast the boys had not had within memory. Cool, sparkling water was at hand. One had but to step to the stream and dip it up, but it was the waffles that put pretty much everything else out of mind.
"Why, Billy, I didn't know that you brought syrup," glowed the Professor, now in high good humor.
"Yassir."
"Well, well! This is indeed a surprise, my man."
"I am thankful that he is at last making an effort to earn his wages," muttered Tad Butler. "Thus far he hasn't done much in that direction."
"You must admit that he has guided us pretty well," defended Walter Perkins.
"You mean we have guided ourselves," differed Ned Rector. "Anybody could follow this hollow; in fact, one couldn't get out of it until he got to the end—that is, unless he had wings—unless he was a bird."
"That's Chops," declared Stacy.
"What do you mean?" demanded Ned, turning to the fat boy.
"I mean he is a bird. Must I explain everything to you? If you insist I will draw a picture of a bird and—"