The wood smoke curled up in a spiral from the side of a big, rotting log where Nat had settled on the camp. The Firebird stood beside the narrow road with the lunch board spread, and Ned and Abe were diligently making ready the picnic repast, of which the seven pound trout and a half-peck of potatoes, bought of a farmer, were the main viands.
But how good it all did smell! The girls had appetites equal to the boys’ own. And although Dorothy and Tavia were deeply disappointed in their search for Tom Moran, they “threw aside carking care,” as Nat said, for the time being.
“For there is another day coming, Dot!” he declared. “A man with a head as red as that fellow’s cannot be lost for long—no, indeed!”
“Cheerful soul, is Nattie,” jollied Ned. “He always was hopeful. ’Member when you were fishing in the bathtub that time, kid?”
“What time?” demanded his brother, suspecting one of Edward’s jokes.
“You know—when mother asked you what you expected to catch? And says you: ‘Pollyglubs.’
“‘What is a pollyglub?’ says the mater, and you handed her back a hot one.
“Oh, I did?” grunted Nat. “Don’t remember it. What did I say?”
“Why, says you: ‘Don’t know; I haven’t caught one yet.’ Oh, you couldn’t beat Nattie for hopefulness. He was one sanguine kid,” laughed Ned. Bob slapped Nat on the back at that and rolled him over on a dry bit of sod where they wrestled for a few minutes—until Ned yelled for help at the campfire. Soon all six of the young folk were busy discussing the luncheon.
“This is really the nicest meal I’ve eaten since we were in camp—eh, Doro?” asked Tavia.