At last Phil and Dave did come. They had been obliged to go a long way to reach the valley and the stream they knew must be there, and it was now quite dark.
The embers of the fire glowed brightly, offering a truly comfortable sense of companionship. In the bright glow's midst stood the big coffee pot which had seen service many times before, also a tightly covered, black roasting-pan. The two boys put down the bucket, borne between them on a short pole and Way at once busied himself in opening up a big bale of bedding.
"All-I-wants-is-my-chicken," half sang, half chanted Paul Jones.
"Oh, forget it!" drawled Phil, impatiently, creating a laugh—perhaps because it was not often he descended to plain, unvarnished slang. "You've been talking chicken all day. My! that coffee smells good," he added, just to take the rough edge off his speech.
"A nice drumstick and a slice or two of white meat. U-m-m!" sighed Jones, as if he certainly would expire directly if his wish were not gratified.
An impatient growl from Phil elicited another laugh in which Jones joined with greatest merriment. Then in another moment—
"Come on, here! Get your festal board ready!" commanded Chef Billy and directly he drew the black, covered pan from the coals and lifted the lid. Ah, what savory smell was that! Chicken—roast chicken, and positively no mistake about it.
"Say!" This ejaculation, his face lighted up bright as the blazing coals, was all Phil could muster.
"Well, I guess maybe we're no wizards! No, we're no wizards—nothing like that at all," chirped Paul Jones in his peculiarly happy way. "No! Don't take a wizard to do these little tricks! Don't think it for a minute!"
"Where ever did you get that chicken?" demanded Phil, completely puzzled. "This is what your talking about white meat meant, is it?"