"Rather," answered the boy. "But perhaps we can get some crackers and milk here. I feel that the pangs of hunger will do something desperate presently. Nat, I suppose, will get a warm drink, and no doubt something to make him strong—homemade bread is the usual, I think. But I may starve," and he looked truly mournful—dinner hour was "flush" as he expressed it, meaning that the time had come to eat, as both hour and minute hand were hugging twelve, whistles blowing and a distant bell sounding, all of which indicated meal time was "flush."
"What's the matter?" asked Dorothy, coming around the house.
"The commissary department has been looted," said Ned. "In other words, our grub is gone."
"Gone!" echoed Dorothy, incredulously.
"The very gonest gone you ever saw. Not so much as a toothpick left."
"What shall we do," sighed the girl, who had put up such a tempting lunch, and had even partly spread it out on the paper-cloth in that "safe" place under the tree.
"Victuals gone?" asked Mrs. Hardy, from the side window. "I might have told you as much, only for hurryin' to get them wet clothes off that boy. Why, our hounds would steal the eggs from the nests, worst thieves I ever saw. Well, never mind. When I get Sam back to the hayfield I'll do what I can for you. But he has to be quick, for it's all cut and there's no telling when a thunder storm 'll come up."
"Oh, we wouldn't think of troubling you so much," demurred Dorothy.
"Is there any store around?" asked Ned, significantly.
"One a mile off that has not a morsel fit to eat in it. I'd as soon swallow poison as eat anything out of that place. Here, young girl (to Tavia), you run down to the dairy there, the door is unlocked, and bring up a pail of milk that's on the bench under the window. I'll give you a couple of glasses and you can help yourselves until Sam gets done."