The stew of succotash and corned beef, which Frank had called the Canoeist’s Delight, was now ready. He set it aside on a stone to cool a trifle while the table was being prepared.
“How’s the coffee getting on, Jerry?” asked the chief cook of the evening; for they usually changed around, and gave each fellow a chance to show what he knew along the line of preparing appetizing dishes, or of exposing his ignorance, which method of procedure naturally created some rivalry.
“Just about ready. I’ve allowed it to boil furiously three times, and settled it with a dash of cold water on each and every occasion. Talk to me about the nectar of the gods, this suits me all right.”
“Oh! please hurry up. I’m almost trembling with eagerness, after sitting here and sniffing those delicious odors for so long a time,” pleaded Will, who happened to have nothing to do with the supper on this occasion, his time coming on the morrow.
But they gave him no heed, those unfeeling wretches.
The one who camps out must expect to prove himself a hero daily by conquering his appetite and holding it in check with a firm hand until the head chef declares that all is ready for the feast to begin.
Frank had just finished placing the aluminum plates and cups, and was about to reach out for the kettle of steaming stew, when to his astonishment he found the stone, where he had laid it, empty.
Thinking that one of the others might be playing some trick, he opened his mouth to remonstrate, when a cry from Will caused him to turn his eyes upward.
There he saw the little kettle swinging in mid-air, and being drawn hastily upwards by some unseen mysterious agency!