“And no wonder,” said Chris. “Wouldn’t you have done the same?”
“I just should. I say, though, I hope they haven’t shot any of those tough old gobblers, years old. They’re as stringy as a fiddle. One just a full year old’s the sort of fellow we want. Who’ll be cook? Your comrade Ned, I expect. If he has let the bird burn I’ll never forgive him.”
“There’ll be no turkey, Griggs,” said Chris.
“What! Why?”
“Because father won’t have any firing.”
“Well, they might trap one, or knock one over with a stick sent flying like a boomerang.”
“Here, I say, don’t!” cried Chris. “I’m so hungry too that it makes my mouth water. Here, I know what we shall have for supper.”
“Yes, what?” cried Griggs eagerly.
“One of those big tins of preserved meat warmed up with water in the kettle like a thick soup, and damper cakes, and tea as well.”
“And not a bad supper either, lad, for hungry folks. Glad of it, for I’ve no faith in Ned Bourne’s cooking. He can make capital tea and coffee, but when it comes to roasting a turkey, or cutting it up and frying it in a pan, I’d beat him hollow. How much farther have we to go?”