“We’ll help,” offered Rick and Chot.
Coffee was soon boiling on the stove, and bacon was sizzling in the pan. By rummaging further in a pantry Mr. Campbell found some prepared flour and, declaring that he was a master-hand at turning flapjacks, he proved it by setting before the boys two plates of delicately-browned pancakes.
“There’s even maple syrup, or what passes for it, to eat on them,” he said, producing a sticky brown bottle.
“Oh, boy!” cried Rick.
“Can’t beat this—not even at home!” declared Chot, and they kept Mr. Campbell busy over the frying pan which he used in place of a pancake griddle. He did not neglect himself, however, and soon all three—no, all four, for Ruddy was not forgotten—had eaten a good breakfast.
“Well, since our friends don’t seem to be coming back, we’ll have to write a note and express our thanks for their hospitality,” said Mr. Campbell, after the meal. “Then we’ll start off again, but I don’t imagine we’ll make very good time until we get on the main road. This rain must have made more mud puddles than usual.”
“We’ll wash the dishes while you’re writing the note,” suggested Rick, for, like all Boy Scouts, he had been taught to leave a place as he found it, and the dishes were clean in the cupboard at the start of breakfast.
There was a tank of warm water connected with the stove, and the dishes were soon being given a sort of rough-and-ready bath. But campers are never fussy—if they were they wouldn’t be campers.
“There, this will thank them for having taken us in,” said Mr. Campbell, as he finished the note to the three men. “I’ll leave it on the table where they’ll see it when they come back. I’ve given them my address in San Francisco,” he added, “and if they want to send us a bill for breakfast I’ll settle it later. But I don’t believe they will. Now I’ll go out and get the car.”
The shed was out of sight behind the shack, and the boys waited a few minutes in front of the cabin to hear the hum of the motor as the self-starter turned it over.