"Go out in the snow and help one of the fellows, then," advised Tom dryly. "After that you'll be able to eat the whole critter."
"But when are you going to eat?" insisted Hen. "It's noon now."
"We'll eat in another hour, I guess, if that suits the crowd," replied Dick.
"I'm ready to eat right now," coaxed Dutcher.
"But you don't belong to the crowd," retorted Dave Darrin grimly. "Unless you want to put up with bread you'll have to wait until the crowd is ready."
"Potatoes will be the first thing ready for dinner, Hen," observed Prescott mildly. "As you're not doing anything outdoors, you might get busy peeling a big pan of potatoes."
"See here," flared Dutcher, "I told you before that I'm no servant, and——"
But Dick had risen, for the clock informed him that it was time to relieve the shift out in the deep snow.
"Suit yourself, Hen," replied Prescott. "If you don't peel the potatoes, and some one else has to do it, then you won't eat any hot dinner to-day. That's flat."
"Isn't Dick Prescott just a mean bully?" growled Hen to himself, as the "relief" stepped outdoors to resume work.