"Now, if you fellows will come back along the road a little ways with me," he announced with a smile, "I've got something to propose. I only hope you fall in with my views, for then there's a chance that we'll have something to eat."
"Oh! you can count on me agreeing with you, Rob!" said Tubby cheerfully. "No matter whether it's fur, fin, or feather, I think I could do justice to nearly anything that grows."
"As it happens, it's something that doesn't fly or walk that I have in my mind," Rob declared rather mysteriously. "The fact is, it hops!"
"Now you have got me worse balled up than ever," protested Tubby, his brow wrinkled with his endeavor to guess the answer.
"I think I know," volunteered Merritt, grinning amicably.
"What does he mean, then? Please hurry and tell me," pleaded Tubby.
"Frogs, isn't it, Rob?" demanded the other.
"Oh! gingersnaps and popguns! Do I have to come down to choosing between eating jumpers and starving to death?" complained the fat boy, looking distressed.
"Well, wait till you get your first taste, that's all," Rob told him. "If you don't say it beats anything you ever took between your teeth, I'm mistaken, and that's all there is about it. Why, they're reckoned one of the fanciest dishes in all the high-class clubs in America, along with diamond-back terrapin, canvas-back duck, and such things. The only thing I'm afraid about is that after you get your first taste you'll want to hog the whole supply."
"But how shall we catch the frogs, and then cook them?" asked Merritt.