A hand went out and he drew the violin case closer.
In the cabin, Harper Merrill lifted the larger of the two thick steaks on a fork and peered at it doubtfully in the dim light. “I guess this one’s done,” he announced. “Try the potatoes, Pete.”
“They’re all right. Falling to pieces, some of ’em. Come on and—”
“Set that coffee back!” yelled Harper. “Gosh, you fellows would stand around and not move a hand! Find a knife, Dill, and I’ll cut this up.”
“I don’t see but three plates,” announced Bull Jones disgustedly. “How we going to manage?”
“Guess those guys didn’t plan to entertain so soon,” chuckled Gus Baldwin, who, with Charley Nagel, completed the company. “I’ll eat mine in my fingers.”
“Got the bread out?” asked Harper impatiently. “Why don’t you open some of that ginger ale, Bull?”
“Haven’t any opener, that’s why! You forgot to ask for one.”
“I didn’t forget any more than you did,” Harper replied truculently, having just singed his fingers on the frying-pan. “I had enough to do, didn’t I? I bought the steak and the onions—”