“Forget it, Dan. Can’t you take a joke?”
Dan let the matter ride. “If you’re sticking with the gang, it’s your turn to help cook breakfast,” he reminded him.
“Yes, Mr. Denner! Waffles, creamed chicken and fresh strawberries coming right up.”
Chips bowed low, a mocking grin overspreading his freckled face. Only the mischief in his blue eyes took the edge from his words.
Now Chips never had entirely accustomed himself to Dan’s election as official denner of the Cubs. Always he had seemed to resent those two gold stripes on the younger boy’s left sleeve. Seldom did he miss a chance to rub it in if ever Dan ventured a suggestion.
“Where’s Brad?” he asked abruptly. “He’s supposed to help too.”
Almost as if he had heard his name spoken, Brad thrust his touseled dark head out the cabin doorway. Thirteen and large for his age, the Den Chief wore the uniform of a Scout.
“Top o’ the morning,” he chirped. “Did I hear my name?”
“The little boss was just saying you’re supposed to help get breakfast,” Chips informed him.
“Chips, I’m not trying to boss anyone,” Dan said, with an effort, holding his temper in check. “Every fellow is supposed to do his share. That’s all.”