“My!” he exclaimed, “but that was a fine biscuit-shower while it lasted. Talk about manna descending from the skies— We’ll have to catch fish now, or go hungry.”
David stripped a piece of bark from a birch and fashioned it into a rude box in which the lunch was stowed.
“I’ll take it,” he said. “We haven’t much farther to go.”
“Magnanimous, that—we haven’t much farther to go. Well, I’m glad some one had sense enough to make a noise. This ‘gloomy woods astray’ business was getting on my nerves. It did me good to hear you laugh, Swickey.”
“I’m glad it did you good,” she replied. “But I am sorry you broke your glasses. You did look funny, though. I saw you start.”
“Huh! That wasn’t anything. You ought to have seen me finish! But I’d do it again to hear you laugh like that. There goes Davy through those bushes like a full-back through a bunch of subs. It’s getting lighter, too. We must be coming to something.”
Presently they stood on the shore of the pond, gazing silently at the unbroken phalanx of green that swept round its placid length and breadth.
“It looks good, Davy. I can almost smell ’em.”
“They’re here—lots of them; and big fellows, too. We might as well have a bite to eat. Can’t catch anything now, it’s too near noon.”
Bascomb surveyed the fragments of the lunch. “By the way, what’s the diminutive for dinner, Davy?—Dinnerette?”