“I don’t know what’s got into him,” said Rowdy. “He never was this way before.”
Rafe lay on the bed of balsam branches, and when his brother tried to stir him up he growled and said: “Let me alone!” But when the stew was done he was ready for his share.
The housekeeping arrangements of the cave were primitive. There were a few odd plates and dishes. But knives and forks were not plentiful, and the tea had to be drunk out of tin cups, and there were only three of them.
There was condensed milk for the tea; and besides the dumplings which Rowdy had made, there were crackers and some cold cornbread left from a previous meal.
Rowdy seemed to be a pretty good cook for a boy of his age. And he was just as handy with dishes and in housekeeping matters as a girl.
The visitors praised his rabbit stew. They really had to do that because they ate so much of it. Rafe grumbled that they took more than their share.
“I’d like to know what’s got into you!” Rowdy said to his brother in great disgust. “You are just as mean as poison ivy—so there!”
“I am not!”
“Yes, you are. And what are you scratching that way for?”
“Because my chest itches. What does anybody scratch for?” growled Rafe.