“But I do mind. I ought to have thought. Just too when you’d offered to do my work for me so that I could stop down to breakfast.”
“Don’t say any more about it,” said Chris, with a grin of pain in his face dying out before a rather malicious smile. “They won’t let me help you one way, so I will in another. I’m precious hungry, and I won’t let your breakfast grow cold.”
“Oh, thank you, old chap. That’s very good of you, for I’m precious hungry too.”
“I thought you were,” continued Chris, looking quite solemn now. “I’ll eat your lot for you.”
For a few moments Ned’s face was a study. It was so full of dismay. Then there was a look of doubt, and directly after he had read the truth.
“Get out!” he cried, and his hand was raised to give his comrade a heavy slap on the back; but Chris cried “Murder!” and shrank away.
“Oh, I forgot again,” cried Ned hurriedly.
“You’d better be off up now, my boy,” said Bourne. “Don’t forget the glass.”
“No, father. All right,” cried the boy, and exchanging glances with Chris and following up his own with a clench of the fist, he took the binocular and hurried up to the lookout, while the rest applied themselves to the needed meal, but half-expecting to be alarmed, and impressed always by the expectation of attack, every one’s weapons being kept ready to hand.
Chris ate, as his father said laughingly, like an impostor, a remark which Griggs, who did not join them till the meal had been going on for some minutes, readily endorsed.