"Come here, Jones! One would think you were at a picnic, the whole of you."
I walked over to where the Skipper stood, fanning himself violently with his panama.
"You told me to keep my eye on them, sir," said I. "Hadn't that Cook better build a fire?"
"What! Think he's hungry so soon?" with a grim smile. "We must husband our resources, Mr. Jones."
"Sounds just like a shipwreck," called Cynthia, who had caught the Skipper's words. "'Husband our resources!' Isn't that delightful!"
"We've got no place to sleep to-night, sir," said I, pursuing my theme. "There are all sorts of crawlers in the bushes yonder. A fire will clear up the place, and will cool off before night."
"You've got more sense than I credited you with," said the Skipper. "Cook, build a fire up there under those trees." The Cook arose, joy and regret intermingled in his looks.
"Thank you, Cook. I never rested the glass on so steady a shoulder."
She had rested it on mine a hundred times.
Thus we each took our turn at the glass, and each told each other what we saw.