Burton Holloway, a lean man of athletic build, rapidly descended the stone steps from the house.
“You’re all invited to our place for breakfast,” he announced. “Have a bad night of it?”
“No, we were snug and warm in the cabin,” Mr. Hatfield replied. “As for breakfast, I don’t think we should impose on Mrs. Holloway. We’ll make out.”
“Suit yourselves,” the Den Dad smiled. “Anyway, tell the Cubs to come to the house for anything they need.”
By the time the camp fire had burned down to cherry red coals, the Cubs began to straggle from the cabin. Chips Davis, a tall stripling for his eleven years, was first to thrust his seal-like head out into the cold mist.
“Another lousy day,” he bemoaned. “Four of ’em in a row. Great!”
“Pipe down and get busy,” Dan growled. “A Cub is supposed to be game.”
“Sure, that’s what it says in the manual. But the wise guy who wrote that book was sitting at his typewriter in a nice cozy room with steam heat and—”
“Pipe down, I say!” Dan repeated. “Or if you can’t take it, there’s a nice hot breakfast waiting for you up at the house.”
Chips glared at Dan, and then suddenly relaxed.