"And we must keep mum about it till you play your hand; is that it?" asked the wondering and awestruck Bandy-legs, at the conclusion of the recital.
"Try and forget all about it, and act just the same as usual toward Steve," said Max.
The other agreed to do his best.
"But, Max," he added, "I'm awful sore over it. Steve Dowdy was never known as having light fingers all the time I went to school with him. Fact is, only that I saw him do it with my own eyes, nothing could make me believe Steve a thief. Oh! it's just rank!"
Max sauntered off, gun in hand, while the cook busied himself about the fire. Bandy-legs had brought his wonderful cookbook along. This contained dozens of recipes given him by the black "mammy" at home. These Bandy-legs had written out after his own idea as to what should be used. But, perhaps, he may have misunderstood the directions in some cases; and the most astonishing results were apt to follow his attempt to surprise his campmates with some new dish calculated to tickle their healthy appetites.
He heard Max fire frequently.
"Run across game, all right," chuckled Bandy-legs as he worked on industriously.
Eating in all its phases appealed to Bandy-legs; and the very thought of game for supper tickled his fancy.
When Max did show up later on he was carrying a very nice little bundle of the long-billed woodcock with their attractive breasts.
"How many?" demanded Bandy-legs, turning away from the fire where he had something boiling furiously.