“The one you were cooking for our supper.”
“Oh, father’s cook to-night; but there’s no turkey.”
“What, then?” said Griggs.
“Oh, a mess of tinned beef.”
“There, I told you so,” cried Chris.
“You never said a word about a mess,” growled Griggs; “but I might have known. A nice mess it will be!”
Ned did not hear, for he was questioning and being questioned about the doings of the day, which had been as uneventful in camp as out of it.
Ten minutes later they were sitting near the fire enjoying the waiting supper, and in the reflection from the glowing embers Chris could see Griggs’ face beaming with the smiles of satisfaction, as he made liberal use of a pewter spoon, and took semi-circular bites out of a hot bread-cake liberally ornamented with grey wood-ashes.
“How’s the mess, Griggs?” said Chris merrily.
Griggs had only one word to say, and it fitted itself for usage as a long-drawn husky drawl.