Roscoe, who knew more about the ways of the world than poor Tom did, shook his head dubiously. He served the coffee and some crackers and dry breakfast food of which he had brought a number of packages, and they ate of this makeshift repast as they continued their talk.
"You ought to have brought bacon," said Tom. "You must never go camping without bacon—and egg powder. There's about twenty different things you can do with egg powder. If you'd brought flour, we could make some flapjacks."
"I'm a punk camper," admitted Roscoe.
"You can see for yourself," said Tom, with blunt frankness, "that you'd have been up against it here pretty soon. You'd have had to go to Leeds for stuff, and they'd ask you for your registration card, maybe."
"I don't see how I'm going to leave you here," Roscoe said doubtfully.
"I'll be all right," said Tom.
"What will you say to them when you come home?"
"I'll tell 'em I ain't going to answer any questions. I'll say I had to go away for something very important."
"You'll be in bad," Roscoe said thoughtfully.
"I won't be misjudged," said Tom simply; "I got the reputation of being kind o' queer, anyway, and they'll just say I had a freak. You can see for yourself," he added, "that it wouldn't be good for us to go back together—even if my foot was all right."