“All right, I guess. They look—er—a trifle well-done, but I suppose they’re all right inside. Want to see one?”
Rob deftly caught the blackened object that Evan tossed him but didn’t hold it long in his hand. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “Want to kill me?”
“Get your plates!” said Malcolm. “Dinner’s ready!”
[CHAPTER X]
STORIES AND SLUMBER
That dinner was worth waiting for, worth all the trouble and weariness it had entailed. They sat around the smoldering fire, balancing tin plates on their knees, with cups of steaming hot coffee and buttered rolls and doughnuts and salt and pepper-boxes dotting the immediate landscape, and did full justice to it. Malcolm’s opinion of his culinary ability was justified by results. The steak was just right, Jelly’s chops were cooked to a turn, the two precious eggs were perfectly fried and the coffee—well, perhaps the coffee was a trifle muddy, but it was hot and it was drinkable and there were no criticisms. The potatoes belied their outward appearance and were surprisingly white and mealy when opened. Jelly had forgotten to provide himself with plate, cup, knife, fork or spoon and ate his dinner from a flat stone, using borrowed implements and his fingers by turns. Malcolm shared his tin cup with him.
“Have a piece of chop, Rob?” asked Jelly.
“No, thanks.”
“I wish you would. I had some of your steak.”