“I don’t see how they can get a picture of a thing like that,” said Warde; “a vulture doing a thing like that, I mean. They wouldn’t get a picture of me having a scrap with a vulture, not while I’m conscious.”
“You wouldn’t be conscious long,” said Warde.
“The first thing they’ll be able to get a picture of up here,” said Ed Carlyle, “is me eating some fried bacon, only they’ll have to be quick. Come on, let’s get the fire started. Where’s the can-opener, anyway? Chuck that egg powder over here, will you? I’m going to stage a scene with an omelet.”
“I know one thing,” said Warde, “we’ve been talking about something big. Whatever they want me to do I’m going to do it. I’m not going to flunk.”
“Believe me, I’m going to do something big,” said Ed. “Watch me! I’m going to do a bacon sandwich—a big one. Where’s the thing to fry this on anyway? Let’s have a big supper; big is my middle name. You fellows must be crazy! You don’t suppose Mr. Wilde wants us to risk our young lives, do you? If I saw a vulture now I’d eat him before he had a chance to eat me, I’m so hungry. I wish there was some place around here where we could get an ice cream soda; I’m thirsty too.”
“A raspberry sundae would go good,” said Warde, as he gathered sticks for their fire. “I remind myself of Pee-Wee Harris. They say vultures live to be a hundred years old.”
“I bet there’s plenty of them up here all right,” said Westy. “We came to the right place.”
“I don’t see any now,” said Ed. “I guess they all went to the movies, hey?”
“It would be mighty risky,” said Westy, “staging a scene like that—a vulture trying to edge somebody off a cliff. I don’t see how they could do it.”
“Leave it to Mr. Wilde,” said Warde.