“We’ll have to destroy the nest somehow,” said Rod, “for as long as that remains where it is those pests will give us trouble.”
“We’ll find a way to fix them after breakfast,” said Stone. “As long as we don’t go near them and fail to attract their attention by our movements, there’s little probability that they will give us much annoyance.”
“This cuc-camping expedition is certainly proving rather sus-strenuous and exciting,” observed Springer.
For some reason Piper seemed to find it difficult to suppress a show of satisfaction, but this he tried to do, even though he could not forget with what glee his companions had joshed him about his unpleasant experience with the sleeping bag. Had Sleuth known that the victim of Carl Duckelstein’s “gougers” was responsible for that first night adventure, he must surely have regarded Crane’s misfortune as a piece of retributive justice. Unsuspecting, however, he refrained from gloating and pretended to commiserate with the wretched chap.
With the fire replenished, Stone put on a kettle of water, and, while that was rising to the boiling point, he peeled and sliced some potatoes from the small supply they had brought. Bacon, fried out, provided fat in which to fry the sliced potatoes, and the salmon Crane had caught was put into the kettle to boil. There was a supply of bread left over from the loaves baked upon the previous day; and, for variety, Stone made hot chocolate instead of coffee.
Now at home chocolate, although occasionally enjoyable, is liable to seem rather flat, insipid and tame; but for breakfast in camp, made with milk, either fresh or condensed, and served piping hot, there is nothing better or more satisfying.
And so, when the fish was properly boiled, the potatoes fried and the chocolate ready, their appetites being by that time keen and demanding, they sat down to a meal which seemed to all, with the exception of Crane, the best they had yet tasted. Even in spite of his still burning wounds, Sile ate with apparent relish. Once they all ducked as a passing hornet whizzed overhead with a humming sound like that of a tiny gas motor turning up at full speed. Crane was the only one who did not laugh; he growled.
Breakfast over and everything cleared away, they resumed consideration of their new and unwelcome neighbors, a few of which, apparently on guard, hovered around the nest.
“With a long pole we might smash the sus-stuffing out of that nest,” declared Springer.
“And probably get ourselves well stung while we were about it,” said Stone. “A smudge is the thing to cook them. A good, heavy smudge, started as close as possible to the nest opening, would smother them as they came out.”