“Well, they make four. There are times, Benjie,” David continued, imitating the manner of a teacher at the school they both attended, “when I find myself almost on the point of losing patience with you. The crew will now return aboard the Argo, leaving the mystery of the mastodon’s footprints unsolved.”
When they returned to the beach in front of their camp they found Mr. Tuckerman and Tom already getting dinner. That is to say, Tom was actually getting it, while John Tuckerman was carrying out his orders. At the moment the latter was peeling potatoes. His flannel shirt open at his throat, his golf-stockings stuck full of little burrs and his face and arms already showing blisters of sunburn, he looked decidedly different from the very dignified person who had come upon Tom Hallett in the lane.
“Flounders,” announced Ben, laying his string of fish on a board that served as a table. “The very best eating, in my humble opinion.”
“Put them in the refrigerator for supper,” said Tom. “You two were gone so long I decided to knock up an omelette for our midday meal.”
“‘Knock up’ is good,” agreed David. “I suppose, Mr. Tuckerman, Tom cracked the shells with a baseball bat.”
“I don’t know how he did it,” Tuckerman said; “it seemed like a miracle to me. But there’s the result; and if anybody ever saw anything more truly beautiful—anything so calculated to make the mouth water in anticipation—well, I don’t believe anybody ever did.” He pointed his paring knife at a golden-brown, crisp object that lay, garnished with watercress, on a big tin plate.
“And speaking of water,” said Tom, “we found the well back of Cotterell Hall. Fresh water, guaranteed sweet and pure. There’s a bucket of it.”
They sat down to dinner, and between mouthfuls they talked.
“Wonderful old house,” said Tom. “We explored it from cellar to attic. Four post bedsteads——”
“With wonderful canopy tops!” added Tuckerman, his spectacled eyes gleaming.