He half rose to go, but Pant pulled him back to his seat. Six of the colored gentlemen were wiping their hands on greasy bandanas, and were preparing to depart.
“Reckon me and Lanky’ll jes’ res’ here for a while,” grunted Mose.
“Eh-heh,” assented Lankyshanks.
The six had hardly disappeared over the hill when Lankyshanks’ eyes popped wide open.
“’Mergency rations,” he whispered.
With a grunt of satisfaction, Mose handed three pork chops to Lankyshanks, wired his own three to his broiler, stirred up the fire, then began slowly revolving the sputtering chops over the sparkling embers.
For fully five minutes Pant and Snowball, on the sand pile, watched in silence—a silence broken only by an occasional, half audible sigh from Snowball.
The chops were done to a brown finish when Pant suddenly fixed his gaze intently upon the big dipper which hung high in the heavens.
At that precise instant, Mose, uttering a groan not unlike that of a dying man, threw his broiler high in air, rolled over backward, turned two somersaults, then stumbling to his feet, ran wildly down the beach. Having dropped his chops on the coals, Lanky followed close behind. The expression of utter terror written on their faces was something to see and marvel at.
Pant still gazed skyward. Snowball gripped his arm, and whispered tensely: