So, with monkey wrench, pliers, hammers and screwdriver, he set about making himself as busy as any of the others—and as greasy.
Dark came on them before they had made enough headway to be noticeable. The boys were glad to see the shadows creeping along, for, truth to tell, they were all thoroughly tired and not a little hungry. Not a bite had any of them eaten since breakfast.
"Hope Budge has taken it upon himself to hash together a few eats," sighed Phil. "I feel hungry enough to tackle my boots."
"Eats?" exclaimed Mr. Fulton in surprise. "You don't mean to tell me that you're hungry?"
"Oh, no, not hungry. Just plain starved," clamored the whole outfit.
"Good. One of you go over and get your guard, and we'll see what those mysterious signals mean that Miss Elizabeth has been making this past half hour. She told me she'd cook us a dinner—if we could stand domestic science grub. This is the first time she ever kept real house. Let's wash up."
The supper that Elizabeth brought, smoking hot, to the long, board-made table the boys quickly set up in the hangar, did not smack very much of inexperience. Even Budge declared it was well worth the trip across the river. The boys were inclined to linger over the meal, and Dave started in to tell a long story about a hunting trip in which he and his uncle had been the heroes of a bear adventure, but Mr. Fulton stopped him, even if the yawns of his listeners had not warned him to cut the tale short.
"We're in for some good hard licks, men," said Mr. Fulton, "and it's going to mean early to bed and early to rise. That is," he amended, "if you want to go through with it."
"We'll stick to the bitter end," they cried. "What's the program?"
"Two weeks of the hardest kind of work. Breakfast at six; work at six-thirty, till twelve; half hour for lunch; work till seven; dinner; bed. That may not sound like much fun—it isn't."