That day’s march was barren of incidents worthy of mention, unless the incident of Tom’s knapsack is worth speaking about. It was after dinner, and they had done some fourteen of the possible twenty miles when there was a cry of disgust from Tom.
“What’s the matter?” asked Dan, turning.
“Mu-mu-mu-matter!” answered Tom. “Mu-mu-matter enough! Lu-lu-lu-look at mu-mu-my knapsack!”
“What have you done to it?” asked Nelson in amazement. “It—it’s empty!”
“No wonder,” said Bob with a smile; “it’s all untied.”
“That’s no way to fix a knapsack,” said Dan soberly. “What have you done with your things?”
“Du-du-du-done with them!” sputtered Tom. “Wh-wh-wh-what do you su-su-suppose I’ve du-du-du-done with them? Eaten th-th-th-them?”
“Well, we know your appetite, Tommy,” said Nelson gently.
“Th-th-they’re su-su-scattered fu-fu-from here to the hotel! Wh-wh-wh-what’ll I du-du-do?”