"Clean him," suggested George Warren, winking at the others. "He's got a dirty face."
True enough, Young Joe had, in the course of his evening's adventures, acquired a streak of smut across one cheek.
Roaring at the suggestion, they seized the struggling captive, lifted him up bodily to the sink, where they held him face upward under a stream of water, pumped with a vigour. When they had done with him, Young Joe's face was most assuredly clean.
"Now," said John Ellison, as they set Joe on his feet again, "there's a towel. Dry up and come and have some honey."
Young Joe, grinning, and with a joyous vision of honey and pumpkin pie before him, obeyed with alacrity.
"Say," he said, cramming a spoonful of the mess into his mouth, and gulping it with huge satisfaction, "can Tim come in? He's out there."
"Sure, bring him in," assented John Ellison.
A few shrill whistles from Young Joe brought his companion to the door; and Tim Reardon was soon likewise equipped with bowl and spoon—but not before he had got his ducking at the kitchen pump, which he took with Spartan fortitude.
Honey and milk, pies and fruit soon disappeared rapidly at the renewed attack. A fresh pie, added largely for the benefit of Young Joe and Tim, went the way of the others. Young Joe gave a murmur of surfeited delight as the last piece of crust disappeared; while Little Tim was gorged to the point almost of speechlessness, and could hardly shake his head at the proffer of more.
"Well," said George Warren, at length, "what are you two chaps doing around here, anyway—I'll bet Joe smelled the food, clear down to the camp."