She looked up at him and laughed for the first time, a fine generous laugh which established at once a new relationship between them.
“No—I haven’t—but I’ve a saucepan.”
“Where?” in amazement.
“Tied to my creel—over there,” and she pointed, “and a small package of tea and some biscuits. I take my own lunch when I fish. I didn’t eat any to-day.”
“Wonderful! A saucepan! I was wondering how—tied to your creel, you say?” and he started off rapidly in the direction of the spot where he had found her.
“And please b-bring my rod—and—and my shoe,” she cried.
He nodded and was off through the brush, finding the place without difficulty. It was a very tiny saucepan, which would hold at the most two cupfuls of liquid, but it would serve. He hurried back eagerly, anxious to complete his arrangements for the meal, and found her propped up against the back log, his creel beside her, industriously preparing the fish.
“How did you get over there?” he asked.
“Crawled. I couldn’t abide just sitting. I feel a lot better already.”
“That was very imprudent,” he said quickly. “We’ll never get out of here until you can use that foot.”