Anyway, Sunday morning it was and breakfast of coffee, corn cakes and bacon, with strawberries after, rather than before the principal part of the meal, was just over. The Auto Boys, in various attitudes of ease, made no immediate haste to clear away the dishes.
Paul Jones sat on a cushion on the ground, with legs crossed like a tailor on his bench. Billy made himself comfortable, on a convenient box, both hands clasped around an up-turned knee—a favorite attitude of his,—while Phil and Dave in equally unconventional positions occupied camp stools. Their places were at opposite sides of an old-time trunk which, turned half over, served as a table. Newspapers—quickly disposed of in the fire when soiled,—no need to wash them—did duty as a tablecloth.
It was a cheerful, pleasant scene, there amid the shade and sunshine and green leaves. A low tent was erected with its back to the rocky cliff at the rear of the ledge. Here were accommodated two beds of hemlock twigs spread upon the ground and covered with blankets, also a box which, in addition to holding wearing apparel and the like, served as a kind of center table. Its lid was pretty well littered with an assortment of young gentlemen's belongings this morning—an odd mixture of neckties, collars, socks, clothes-brush, shoe brush, a revolver, fishing tackle, a hatchet and a bottle of olives. Larger items of wearing apparel hung on a line along the tent's rear wall.
In the shallow cave shelves formed by building up broad, flat stones like a series of steps, accommodated sundry tinware, dishes and canned provisions. A perfect cooling system, made by diverting a part of the water from the spring to a small excavation in the gravelly floor of the cave, afforded proper storage for a crock of butter and a pitcher of milk set down in the little pool. Here, also, a bucket of other provisions of a perishable nature was similarly disposed. Not even the famous spring-houses of early days could have been more serviceable or delightful.
The campfire was placed not quite in front of the tent, as the custom is if prevailing winds do not blow the smoke in, but quite to one side. It was the width of the ledge, rather than the winds, however, which in this instance made desirable the location chosen. It would not do for Chef Billy to have to work at the extreme edge of the declivity that broke sharply down to the valley below—the "jumping off place," Jones called it.
The improvised table was almost directly in front of the tent, but slightly toward the right, the fire being on the left. Still further to the right was a rough shelter for the car made of poles with a tarpaulin and sundry green branches spread over them. Here were stored, likewise, a couple of axes—brought all the way from the Retreat in Gleason's ravine—and numerous other tools, spades and a pickaxe included.
"And now we're so comfortably settled, the pity is it's Sunday, and—"
"And we told the folks we'd keep track of the days of the week, and they sort of took it for granted from that that we'd observe the seventh," broke in Phil Way, finishing the sentence Billy Worth began. "Pretty good day to write some letters home, for one thing. And those other matters you may have in mind, such as certain things that have been in the woods, all undisturbed for a good many years, will probably keep till to-morrow."
"If there had just been a text announced we'd have had a regular sermon already," quoth Paul Jones, with that inimitable grin that made his plain, freckled face delightfully attractive.
"Why, if a text is all you want, I'll give you one," spoke Way instantly. "It isn't from the Bible but is a good text, anyway. 'To thine own self be true.' It means just this: That we should not, away off here in the wilderness, and no fellow should when away by himself anywhere, be any less decent and respectable than he would be where everybody knows all that is going on. It means enough more than this, but the point for us is that it is just as much Sunday here as it is at home. We'll be civilized."