“But I don’t understand yet,” the other went on. “What is the matter with the boy? Has he turned himself into a billy goat?”
“He’s suggesting that you mow the lawn!” Case explained. “He doesn’t like the fire-escapes!”
Clay roared and pointed to the beards worn by the three, and then they understood and joined in the laugh until the swamp echoed back the sounds.
“You’ll all have to wash dishes, I take it!” Gregg declared.
“That’s about the way it usually turns out, when one starts talking slang,” Clay explained. “We’re all so full of it that it just bubbles out.”
“It is fine that we have something to be jolly over,” Gregg hastened to say, “for the prospects of getting out of here are not alluring.”
“Wouldn’t be no fun if everything went right!” Alex. insisted. “We have the most sport when we’re lost, or stolen, or strayed away. Now, you watch me cook these ducks.”
The boy got out a baking pan standing on three short legs. The bottom was double so as to prevent burning. Then he put two fat ducks inside, secured the cover, and removed what seemed to Gregg to be the whole top of the stove.
The short legs of the pan rested on the red-hot coals in the firebox, while the cover was always within reach. As soon as the ducks, which had previously been hastily parboiled, began to simmer and send forth appetizing odors, the boy watched them every minute, turning and basting until they were a beautiful golden brown.
In the meantime coffee had been made and the fish fried on the electric coil.