The assistant cook—huge, raw-boned, with a good-natured and not unintelligent face—lounged before the tent for some moments before he was observed. Then, in the crisp way he had with the men, Carhart told him to step in.
“Well,” began the boss, looking him over, “what kind of a cook are you?”
A slow blush spread over the broad features.
“Speak up. What were you doing when I sent for you?”
“I—I—you see, sir, Jack Flagg was gone, and there wasn’t anything being done about dinner, and I—”
“And you took charge of things, eh?”
“Well—sort of, sir. You see—”
“That’s the way to do business. Go back and stick at it. Wait a minute, though. Has Flagg been hanging around any?”
“‘Well,’ began the boss, looking him over, ‘what kind of a cook are you?’”