Frank could not help thinking that life had evidently paid back Bart Dawson in his own coin. He had stolen a fortune from Jadbury Wilson after Wilson had endured hard luck for years. Now he was getting a taste of his own medicine. Still, it seemed strange that Fenton Hardy should be so convinced of Dawson's honesty if he were the type of man who would rob his own partners.
"Come and get it!" piped Hank Shale, from the next room.
"That's the supper call," laughed Mr. Hardy. "You must be hungry after your journey. Better go and eat. Hank will bring me mine in here."
Nothing loath, the two boys went into the combination living room and kitchen, where Hank Shale was already dishing out piping hot beans and stew from an enormous pot. What with huge slabs of bread, thickly buttered, and excellent coffee, the boys sat down to their supper with a will. They ate off tin plates and drank from tin cups, but they agreed that no meal could have tasted better. Even the food of the dining car on the train, exquisitely cooked and served though it had been, seemed somehow to lack the flavor of this meal in Hank Shale's mountain cabin.
Hank, like most men who have lived a solitary existence, was a silent man. He said nothing throughout the meal, but as he watched the boys eat and as he responded to their request for second helpings, a slow smile crept over his wrinkled face.
"That's the best meal I ever ate!" declared Frank emphatically, when he had cleared his plate for the second time.
"Me too," agreed Joe.
"Glad ye like it," said Hank Shale, deeply pleased.