But Bandy-legs had much to learn.
His ambition was all right, but he would soon discover the vast difference between cooking at a gas range or the family coal stove and trying to accomplish the same result out in the wilds over an open wood fire.
Then, again, he had stuffed his head so very full of different recipes that the chances were poor Bandy-legs must get the formulas mixed, which would result in some mighty queer messes to be tried upon his patient campmates.
After the meal was finished those who were to do the grand wading act of the afternoon got ready to go forth.
They took the bags, and received minute directions from Max concerning the best way for finding the mussels, half buried as they were in mud or sand.
Max also made a rude map on paper, taking in the supposed course of the winding river, as well as the country that came between.
"Here you can see the trail I've marked as the shortest cut to camp," he finished, pointing to a dotted line that seemed to be almost straight. "It runs exactly southwest, you notice, boys."
"But how are we going to always know what is southwest?" asked
Bandy-legs, receiving the chart.
At that Toby gave a snort of disdain.
"W-w-what d'ye s'pose this is for, s-s-silly?" he demanded, dangling a little nickel-plated object before the eyes of his companion.