He was wrong, as was frequently the case, but it mattered little, for there was no one to contradict him.
“Let me see,” he muttered, taking off his basket, and drawing a newspaper parcel from the pocket of his coat—in which operation he was induced by memory to make a last futile attempt to see himself behind—“what have they put up for me?”
The parcel, when opened, disclosed a tempting pile of meat sandwiches. The old gentleman spread them out on a flattish boulder, which served as an admirable table.
Having leaned his rod against a tree, he emptied the basket on a grassy spot, and arranged the silver bars in a row. Then he sat down on his basket beside the table, and gave himself up to food and contemplation.
“A goodly row,” he muttered, as well as the ham sandwich would let him. “Not a bad beginning; and such a splendid dish. There’s comfort in that, for I hate useless work of any kind. A sort of an illustration, this, of the fitness of things!”
Apparently the peculiar unfitness of simultaneous mastication and speech struck him, for he paused a few moments, then continued,—“Yes, fitness. Supplies for the table absolutely needed. Healthy exercise a consequence. Result, felicity!”
The supplies checking speech again, MacRummle looked around him, with benignant good-will to man and beast expressed on his countenance.
Craning their necks over a bank, and seeing the old gentleman thus pleasantly engaged, the two boys sank into the heather, and disappeared from view as completely as did “Clan Alpine’s warriors true,” after they had been shown to Fitz James by Roderick Dhu. Like two sparrows in a purple nest they proceeded to enjoy themselves.
“Now, Tonal’, we will grub,” said Junkie. “Why, what’s the matter with you?” he asked, on observing a sudden fall in his companion’s countenance.
“The matter?” repeated the boy. “It iss the crub that’s the matter, for I hev not a crumb with me.”