“Dinner?” retorted Mac. “I’ll get your dinner—just what I had for three days.”
He dashed into the little square supply tent and a moment later returned with a big slice of cheese and a handful of crackers.
“If you want it hot,” he snapped, “put it out in the sun.”
Still laughing, Bob had a hasty look at the camp. Mac’s indignation certainly had not interfered with his camp housekeeping. And what Bob saw was ample compensation for the absence of such trifles as a few matches. The camp site was on a level bit of sand ending in the always picturesque saw palmettoes. Protected in the rear by this hedge of green, the site faced the wide bay and white-capped sound, beyond which could be made out the white sand of the mainland beach.
The sleeping tent was as fresh, clean and airy as the quarters of a West Point cadet. Next to it was the supply tent and quarters for Jerry. Here were the unopened supplies—canvas encased smoked meats, tins of preserved meats, vegetables and fruits, rods and fish-boxes, the shot gun and shells, candles, rain coats, cooking utensils and table dishes—in short, to the eye at least, enough provender to supply a half dozen men a month or more.
On a box in the center of the tent, a new towel covered something. Bob raised it. Beneath, was a half a link of bologna sausage, a piece of yellow cheese and the fragments of some crackers. The boy broke out into a peal of laughter.
“Why didn’t you try some baked beans or potted tongue or some preserved peaches?” he asked as the disgruntled Mac followed him into the tent.
“Preserves and cold beans?” sneered Mac. “With them buster crabs and sweet red fish a curlin’ up in the sun just for the lack o’ a match? I want meat. An’ I didn’t come all the way over here to eat peaches outen a can.”
Bob stepped to Tom’s side and spoke in a low voice. Tom’s eyes bulged. Then he too smiled.
“Go on,” added Bob aloud. “It isn’t over five miles. You can be back in twenty minutes or so.”