“One question first, doctor. Have you got anything to eat? I haven’t tasted food for twelve hours.”
“To be sure we have,” answered Brush, “and plenty of it. Sit here with the doctor, and in ten minutes you shall have supper.”
“Brush is chief cook this week, Tom,” explained Dr. Spooner. “It is well for you that he is, for my genius doesn’t lie in that direction.”
CHAPTER XL.
TOM FINDS HIMSELF RICH.
IN TEN minutes Tom found himself sitting at the hospitable board of his two friends. It was literally a board. A broad plank, or rather two side by side, were stretched across the tops of two barrels, and upon this humble table Peter Brush spread a plain but substantial supper.
Cold meat, bread and butter and tea—that was all it consisted of, but of these there was plenty, and Tom made a fierce onslaught upon them.
“I’m sorry we haven’t any pudding or pie, Tom,” said Mr. Brush. “I know somethin’ about cookin’, but I ain’t up to that.”
“Brush made a pie once,” said the doctor, shuddering. “It looked pretty well, but I tasted it, and the taste is still in my mouth. He tried to eat it himself, but couldn’t. A pig came along, and we gave it to him. I never saw that pig again. I suspect he died of the colic.”
Peter Brush laughed good-naturedly at this story, and only retorted: