“Good!” exclaimed Larry. “That’s proof positive that you haven’t caught the fever. I was afraid you might.”
“Fever? Why, I was as cold as the Arctic circle—but then perhaps you keep your fevers on ice down here and serve ’em cold. You have so many queer ways that nothing surprises me.”
Larry explained, and Tom laughed at him for his pains, for of course Tom knew what he had meant.
It was well past midnight, and the others shared Tom’s hunger in full measure, so they were not greatly disappointed when, in response to their eager demands for the story he had to tell, he answered:
“I’ll tell you all about it when we get something to eat. Till then my loquacity will closely resemble that of a clam.”
One of the party had killed some fat black squirrels during the preceding day, and as these were already “dressed for the banquet,” in Dick’s phrase, they were spread upon a mass of coals, and within a brief while the meal—supper or breakfast, or post-midnight luncheon, or whatever else it might be called—was ready to receive their attention.
“Now, Tom, tell us!” demanded Larry, when their hunger was partially appeased.
“Wait a minute,” interposed Dick. “Isn’t this rather risky?”
“What?”