"Hello, Ed! what's up? You've got something there that smells mighty good to a hungry fellow like me. What is it?"
"I'll answer your questions one at a time," answered Ed. "'What's up?' Why, you are, of course. 'What is it'—that I'm cooking? You just get out of bed and see."
Tom obeyed. Creeping stiffly out of bed he seized the foot tub that had stood there for two hours or more and felt of the water. It was by this time sharply cold. Tom stripped off his clothing, soused his head into the water and then taking a sponge, sluiced his whole body with the nearly freezing liquid. A rapid rub down followed, and Tom called out:
"Now, Ed, bring on your breakfast as soon as you can. I'm nearly starved."
With that he slipped again into his clothing and a minute later was devouring a quail and a big pone of very coarse corn bread which Ed had buttered with the scant remains of the ante-Christmas bacon drippings.
"Where are the other fellows?" asked Tom, as he ate.
"Out chopping," answered Ed.
"Did they have bacon dripping butter on their bread this morning?"
"Indeed they didn't. That was saved, by unanimous vote, for you. For but for you there wouldn't have been any bread in Camp Venture to butter with anything."
"Oh, well," said Tom, "but you see it isn't fair. You ought to have divided the bacon fat—"