Without waiting to answer the new boy’s greeting, the hunters had disappeared into the bark shanty. When next they issued forth they were rigged up Indian fashion in moccasins and blankets, the latter being doubled and draped over their underclothing,—of which luckily they had a dry supply,—and gathered round their waists with leather straps. Knitted caps, usually worn when sleeping, adorned their heads.
“You see, we followed Dol’s example and your advice, Uncle Eb,” said Cyrus, as they seated themselves by the camp-fire. “And I tell you these make tip-top dressing-gowns when you’re feeling a little bit chilly after a drenching. We didn’t bring along a second suit of tweeds for the simple reason that we mean to do some pretty rough tramping with our packs on our backs, and then a fellow is likely to grumble at any unnecessary pound of weight he carries.”
“Shuah—shuah!” assented Uncle Eb.
“And that is why we left our fishing-rods behind,” continued Garst. “You see, our main object this trip is neither hunting nor fishing. But a creel of gamey trout from Squaw Pond would come in handy now to replenish our larder.”
“Wal, I b’lieve I’ll fix up a rod to-mo-oh an’ hook a few, fer de pork’s givin’ out. Hain’t got mich use fer trout meself. Dey’s kind o’ tasteless eatin’ if a man can git a bit o’ fat coon or a fatty [hare], let ’lone ven’zon. Pork’s a sight better’n ’em to my mind.”
While Uncle Eb was giving his views on food, he was hurriedly “bilin’” coffee, frying unlimited flapjacks, and breaking up some crystal cakes of maple sugar, which he melted into a sirup, and poured over them.
“De bell done chime
Fer de breakfast time!”
he shouted gleefully when all was accomplished. “Heah, yonkers! I guess we may call dis meal breakfast jest as well as not, fer it’s neah to dawn now.”
And the trio fell to voraciously, as he handed them each a steaming tin mug and an equally steaming plate. The newly awakened youngster, who had been cuddling his head sleepily against Neal’s shoulder (a glance showed that they were brothers), had clamored for his share of the banquet.
“You haven’t been lonely, Dol, I hope, have you?” said Cyrus, as a whole flapjack, doubled over and drenched in sirup, disappeared down his capacious throat.