The three boys met at the camp.
“Lemme see her,” panted Mac, dropping his bucket. “I seen her comin’. Gimme a ride. Gee, but it’s lonesome here. Say,” he added before the amused boys could either make answer or get a look at the camp, “have you fellows got any matches?”
“Matches?” exclaimed both Bob and Tom, running their hands into their pockets.
“Yes, matches. I ain’t had a fire since Captain Joe left. This is a fine camp,” sneered Mac indignantly. “When them fellows sailed away, they didn’t leave me a single match. As I ain’t no Indian I ain’t had no fire, and nothin’ to eat that had to be cooked.”
Bob and Tom looked at each other blankly.
“You don’t mean to tell me you fellows hain’t got no matches?” exclaimed Mac, with increased contempt. “Look at them,” he said, bitterly pointing to his bucket, “as fine a mess o’ pan red fish as ever made a skillet smoke. Well, by golly,” and he threw his pole on the sand, “if that ain’t the limit. When’s that schooner goin’ to git back?”
“To-morrow morning,” answered Bob, with a smile.
“Laugh,” roared Mac, “it’s awful funny—specially if you had a good hot breakfast in some swell café. Mebbe by to-morrow, you won’t feel so funny.”
“We haven’t eaten since mahnin’,” interposed Tom. “We sort a reckoned you’d have a hot dinnah a waitin’ fo’ us.”