The other two were nothing loath, and so, without bothering to say a word to any one, the lads sauntered off down the road. The balmy scent of pines and the mountain laurel hung heavily in the air. Nat inhaled it delightedly.
"I tell you, fellows, this is living," he exclaimed.
"You bet," agreed Joe heartily.
"T-t-t-that p-p-pie was f-f-fine," said the unpoetical Ding-dong, smacking his lips at the recollection of the dessert.
"There you go," said Nat in mock disgust, "always harping on eating."
"T-th-that's b-b-better-phwit—than eating on harpoons, isn't it?" asked Ding-dong, with a look of injured innocence.
"I said harping on eating. Not harpoons on eating," retorted Nat.
"Oh," said Ding-dong. "Well, don't wail about it."
"Say, if you make any more puns I'll chuck you down into that canyon," threatened Joe, pointing downward into a black abyss which, at the portion of the road they had now reached, yawned to one side of the thoroughfare.