“As I once before remarked,” observed Grant, “I don’t reckon Carl Duckelstein is quite as sleepy as he looks. It was plenty plain that he suspected us of putting up that joke on him.”
After laughing and chatting a while longer, they became aware that it was midday and time for dinner.
“I’m hungry again,” announced Sleuth; “and even taking up a hole in my belt, after the manner of the bold pioneers of other days, will not satisfy me. What are we to have for rations?”
“Perhaps the cuc-cook will suggest something,” said Springer, looking at Stone.
“I’ve told you before,” reminded Ben, “that I’m a mighty poor cook.”
This brought a chorus of remonstrance from the others, and Grant remarked:
“I reckon you’re the best cook in the bunch, and we can stand it if you can. Our bread must be running low. Can you make bread?”
“Or flapjacks?” cried Sile. “Them’s the things, flapjacks. We brought along a can of molasses, and if yeou can knock together some flapjacks, Ben, it’ll fix us all right.”
“The kind I’d make would be likely to fix you,” agreed Stone. “Still, I’ve seen my mother make them, and I’m willing to try.”
That was enough, and, encouraged by his mates, he set about the task. First he measured out a quart of flour, into which he rubbed dry about two tablespoonfuls of lard, adding a teaspoonful of salt, two of baking powder and two of sugar, the latter to make the flapjacks brown. With the addition of cold water and the vigorous use of a spoon he produced a thin batter.