“Yes,” cried Phil, excitedly.
“And make a fire and bake them in the hot ashes.”
“To be sure,” cried Phil, clapping his hands again.
“Sometimes, too, we may be able to dig up a few potatoes.”
“And roast them.”
“Of course. You’ll like making a fire.”
“I shall,” cried the boy, with emphasis.
“Then we can call at a farm sometimes and buy some bread and milk and—”
“I say, Dr Martin, this is going to be a holiday. Which way are we going?”