"No?" said Ingleby. "Nobody could have called that pork good; but dried apples ad libitum are apt to pall on one."
Hetty shook her head. "I'm afraid they're not even going to do that," she said. "There's very few of them left in the bottom of the bag."
Just then Leger appeared, carrying a fishing-rod which Ingleby had laboriously fashioned out of a straight fir branch. He had also a string of trout, but was apparently dripping below the knees and somewhat disconsolate. The trout were dressed ready, and he laid two or three of them in the pan, and then sat down upon one of the hearth logs.
"I expect that's the last we'll get," he said.
"You haven't whipped those flies off?" said Ingleby.
Leger nodded ruefully. "I'm afraid I have," he said. "At least, I let them sink in an eddy and hooked a boulder. It comes to very much the same thing."
Hetty laughed as she saw Ingleby's face. "Perhaps I'd better go away," she said. "Aren't there times when it hurts you to be quiet?"
"There are," said Ingleby drily. "This is one of them."
"Well," said Hetty, "you can talk when you break out. I heard you one night in the car—but we'll get supper, and then if you're very good I'll show you something."
She stirred the fire, and laid out the inevitable dried apples and a loaf of bread which was not exactly of the kind somewhat aptly termed grindstone in that country. Then when the edge of their hunger was blunted she took out a very diminutive fluffy object and handed it to Ingleby.