“Don’t know.”
“One that’s made out of khaki, I guess—don’t you throw that! Roll that green log this way, will you, Harold? Many thanks. Placing the green log in a parallel position to the other one, our young hero now knelt stealthily—”
“Our young hero will never see home again if he isn’t careful,” said Harry, as he tugged at the cover of a can.
“When suddenly,” continued Gordon, “the bully—”
But actions spoke louder than words. The bully let fly both camp cushions, one after the other, and under this rapid fusillade “our young hero” sank to the ground.
“Coward! Coward!” he called.
“Look here, Kid,” said Harry, standing over him and brandishing the can opener, “I’ve got you on the top of this lonely mountain. My contract provides that I shall accompany you in searching for camp. It does not include your old friend Alger, nor Harry Castleman, either. In just a minute—”
Gordon rose contritely. “What next—Harold?”
“Put some water to boil.”
They sat with their backs against the trunk of a large tree, and Gordon admitted that fried bacon never tasted so good, and that nothing went so well with it as pilot biscuit. “I don’t see what they have bread and butter for, anyway,” said he. But his inventive genius would not long remain satisfied with the fare which Harry provided, and presently he was announcing luscious combinations. “I say, try this, Harry—it’s simply great!” He handed Harry two slices of bacon with a fig between them. When the rice pudding was served, words failed him. He ate it with silent and serene delight. They topped off with squares of chocolate, on one of which Gordon was on the point of pouring a little “fly-dope” by way of experiment.