“We’ll let you off this time, George,” he remarked, pointedly, “but the very next batch of fish we haul in you can tackle the job.”
George only chuckled, and drew a sigh of relief. Perhaps he may have said to himself that sometimes people count their chickens before they are hatched, and that possibly there might never be another “batch;” remembering the story of the small boy who while eating an apple, upon being appealed to by an envious comrade to give him the core, told him “there ain’t a-goin’ to be any core, Jimmy.”
In due time the fish were laid away in a safe place where no roving animal was apt to discover and appropriate them. Buster might in his happy-go-lucky fashion have been careless in this particular, but shrewd Josh was far too smart to take unnecessary chances.
“We don’t know anything about the country around here,” he told the others. “They may have wild animals, and again p’raps there’s nothing of the kind to be feared. But it’s best to lock the stable before the horse is stolen.”
So the fish were kept aboard the boat, although from time to time George might have been observed to sniff the air suggestively as he prepared to sleep, plainly indicating that he disliked the fishy smell. But then George always was what Josh called “finicky” in his habits, and the rest seemed to pay little or no attention to things that annoyed the particular one.
When morning came, without any untoward happening, Buster took particular pains to cook that mess of fish to a beautiful brown color. He followed the old and well known camp method of first throwing several slices of fat salt pork into the skillet and rendering it down. Then when it was boiling hot he placed as many of the fish as it would accommodate in the pan, first rolling them in cracker dust. Turning them back and forth as was necessary he finally had them looking so appetizing that the others refused to wait a minute longer, but made a raid on the lot.
The breakfast was a pronounced success. Even George was heard to say that he did not care how soon it was repeated; which was quite reckless on his part, since he had been given due warning as to his duties next time.
The sun was well up and shining brightly when they left the scene of their camp. It promised to be a rather warm day, Josh predicted, after taking a look around at the sky, and sizing up the breeze. Josh pretended to be something of a weather sharp, though hardly calling himself a prophet along those lines.
“And,” said he, as they started down the river again, “it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if we ran into a squall before we see that old sun go down tonight.”
“Do you really mean that, Josh?” asked Buster.