“Yes, I say it’s a shame!” cried Jack, indignantly.
“Perfectly awful,” confirmed Dray.
“Our meeting is at nine,” announced Walter, “and when I went on the soup shift, I did not agree to do the waiting. That’s not my part.”
Ed tucked an end of white mosquito netting in his belt, draped it jauntily, and appeared ready to do the “waiting.” Walter was frying bacon and eggs on the oil stove. Jack threw dishes at the oilcloth-covered table in imitation of a game of quoits, and he rarely missed the mark. They were about to have breakfast, and in spite of the difficulties encountered in the way of modern improvements omitted in the arrangement of Camp Couldn’t (the camp got that name for a million reasons), the boys were having a fine time.
“That coffee will be cold,” protested Dray, “and my doctor says cold coffee is slow poison. I prefer my poison quick.” The joke about Dray’s doctor was that Dray never knew a doctor other than the medical inspector at school. He had such astonishingly good health that they used the idea of sickness in reference to him as a “counter irritant.”
“But this stove is a trifle small,” said Walter. “What do you say we buy that one from Camp Cattle? It’s a peach.”
“If the Cattle crowd have a good stove they won’t sell it,” replied Jack. “You will likely find a second-hand flue in it, or a rubber hose leader. Those boys are brilliant. If we need a new stove let it be from Duke’s, with a cast-iron guarantee.”
“Right-o,” seconded Dray. “The cast-iron is always useful about a camp. But I say, what about the racket at the Mote last night? That sister of yours, Jack, is wasting her talents. She ought to be chief of a detective bureau.”
“Cora is all right,” Jack returned, proudly. “And while we are on the subject, and not to brag, of course, I might say that some of the other girls are in the same class. First few years they came out to the woods I used to be rather doubtful, but now we often find that the maids can take care of the masters; don’t we, Wallie? More of that odor, please. I wonder why bacon turns all to odor when it’s cooked up!”
“There are only two more pieces of odor left,” complained Walter, “and I’d like the smell myself.”