“You couldn’t lose that restless scamp if you tried, so stop worrying.”
“I can’t help it,” grumbled Sandy.
Dick suddenly sat up straight, the perplexed lines vanishing from his forehead.
“Say, I’ll bet I know. He’s gone off to snare rabbits. He’s been complaining a lot lately about our fish diet. I recall now that when we were walking along together early this morning he informed me that at our next stop he intended to set out some snares.”
“Don’t blame him one bit. I’m tired of this fish diet myself. Every time I wake up, I examine my body to see if I haven’t started to grow scales.”
Dick laughed. “Fish are called brain-food, Sandy. Don’t forget that. By the time we reach Half Way House, we’ll all be very learned and wise.”
“I much prefer to wallow along in ignorance,” Sandy retorted. “I hate fish. When we get home I never want to see another. Lately, about all I can think about is flapjacks and coffee and thick slices of white bread with a top covering of butter. Last night, or to be more exact, yesterday afternoon while I slept, I dreamed that Uncle Walter had just received one of those big plum puddings from England and that he made me a present of the whole of it.”
Sandy paused to moisten his lips.
“I never had such a vivid dream,” he went on. “At one sitting I ate the whole of it. It had dates and raisins in it, and currants and nuts, and there was a rich sauce that I kept pouring over it and—yum, yum—”
“Stop! Stop!” Dick shouted, vainly trying to shut out the appetizing picture. “You can tell the rest of that some other time when I’m in a better condition to appreciate it.”