“We’ve done about half,” Malcolm answered, “but the rest of the trip is the hardest. What time is it, I wonder.”
It was twenty minutes to eleven.
“Time enough,” muttered Rob, leaning back against a tree, “if Jelly doesn’t delay the game too long. Isn’t he funny with his ‘pair of chops?’”
“There he comes, I think,” said Evan. “I hear something down there. O Jelly!”
“Hello!”
“Did you find ’em?”
“Yes, most of them,” was the faint reply. After another minute Jelly appeared below. Stopping to recover his parcel, he toiled up to them, his face as red as a beet and the perspiration running down his cheeks. He sank to the ground and puffed and panted.
“I found the chops,” he said. “And six—potatoes—but the eggs—were—smashed.”
“Didn’t you recover any of them?” asked Rob solicitously.