“Just the idea, and we’ll have a new breakfast food—choc-chocerealeg.”
“Reminds you of the Champastic Motor,” laughed Harry. “I wonder how the little chap’s getting on with his model.”
“We’ll get him in the troop, hey, Harry?”
“By all means.”
After supper, to which both did full justice, they sat back to await the darkness. They had hoped to see some smoke which might indicate a cook fire, in the woods below, but supper time had come and gone and there had not been the faintest suggestion of any. It was true their outlook was by no means limited to the woods directly east of them. By shifting their position somewhat they could scan the country far to the west and south. But the woods to the east afforded an ideal spot for a camp; there was the lake just beyond—it was just such a spot as Red Deer would have chosen and near enough to show the trained vision of a scout the smoke of its cook fire. But there was none, and both boys rather dreaded the approach of darkness with, perhaps, its greater disappointment. For Gordon enthusiastically, and Harry quietly, had set their hopes all day on what a view from this old mountain might reveal.
“I know one thing,” said Harry, “and that is, if we stay here over to-morrow, I’m going to find a place where little fishes dwell. Methinks I could dally with a fried trout, Sir Gordon.”
“But why should we hang around here over to-morrow, Harry?”
“Because, my son, we don’t happen to be weather-vanes on the top of a steeple. If we don’t spy anything down there, we’ve got to get over that way till we can command the west,—savvy?”
“That’s a good expression, Harry, ‘command the west.’”
“You like it?”