"Count and see," laughed Max, placing his shotgun against a tree, and sitting down to rest.
"Just five," remarked Bandy-legs, presently; "say, that was mighty kind of you not to skip me, Max. One apiece all around, eh? Wow! I hope now my book tells just how woodcock are to be done, for blessed if I know a thing about it. To tell the honest truth, I don't recollect ever having seen the gamy-looking bird before."
"We'll manage that part of the programme all right, never fear, Bandy-legs. Pretty near time for the boys to be showing up, ain't it? Hey! something's boiling over and trying to put out the fire."
With a whoop Bandy-legs made a wild dash for his station, and apparently managed to "save his bacon," as Max called out, laughingly.
Presently the sound of voices told that the rest of the camping party had arrived.
Each of them seemed to be carrying something of a load on his back.
The catch was heaped in a pile, and Bandy-legs left his fire long enough to admire the product of the morning "wading act."
"Get ready for dinner, you fellows," he remarked, with a trace of anxiety in his voice.
The rude table was set with the usual tin cups, pie pans for plates, knives, forks, and spoons. In addition there was a pile of bread, some cheese and crackers, part of a boiled ham, a mess of cold rice left over from the previous day, and a dish of hot Boston baked beans.
"Bring on the coffee," sang out Steve, sitting down.