CHAPTER XXIII.
THE FROG HUNTERS.
"That settles me, I guess!" said Tubby sadly, as he followed Rob into the shelter of the brush nearby, from which haven of refuge they might watch to see what chances there were of the big camp, a mile and more away, being broken up.
"I know what you're thinking about, Tubby," Merritt told him; "that none of us has had any breakfast, and the outlook for dinner is about as tough as it could be."
"Yes," admitted the fat scout, "I feel just like kicking myself, because I didn't think of doing it when I had the chance."
"Doing what?" asked Merritt.
"Getting that good-natured old fellow at the inn to put us up some lunch," was the explanation Tubby offered. "I guess he'd have done it, too, because he thought we deserved being taken care of, after hearing what the wounded Belgian soldiers had to tell about us. Oh! it's a shame how all my great thoughts come afterward. What's the use of locking the stable door when the horse has been stolen?"
"Well, cheer up," said Rob, who, of course, had overheard what was being said; "it may not be a case of starving."
"See here, you don't happen to have a lot of stuff hidden away on your person, do you, Rob?" gasped Tubby hopefully; and, as the other shook his head, he continued in a mournful tone, "I thought that would be too good to be true. But please tell us what you mean by saying it mightn't be so very serious. Mebbe you know of a henroost nearby, where we might find a tough old Dominick fowl that had been overlooked by the raider squads from the camp?"
"If I did I'd tell you, Tubby; but wait a bit, while we watch the camp. If nothing happens inside of two hours, I've got a sort of scheme to propose to you both, and I hope it'll meet with your approbation."