“I only hope if I win I do it in a straightaway race, not on a technical point,” the younger boy rejoined. “Ross still figures he lost on a fluke.”
By the time the Cubs were dressed, lunch was ready. Squatting around the glowing coals, they filled their plates with steak, potatoes and generous helpings of carrots.
As his crowning achievement, Mr. Holloway produced a pan of delicately browned biscuits baked in a home-made reflector oven which he had fashioned.
“How does the meal taste, boys?” he asked.
“Swell!” approved Red, reaching for another biscuit. “As a cook, we’ll give you the tin medal!”
When the last scrap of food had disappeared, the Cubs doused sand on the fires, dispatched the dishes and then stretched out to enjoy a rest.
Chips, however, soon became restless.
“I think I’ll amble down the beach and explore,” he announced. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll find the entrance to that old tunnel Mr. Hatfield told us about!”
“If you do, write me a letter about it,” Brad joked, stretching lazily. “I’m treating myself to a snooze. That swim made me drowsy.”
“Don’t go out of sight of camp, Chips,” Mr. Hatfield advised the boy as he started away.