And every one declared he was not such a bad cook after all, when they saw and tasted the fried fish and potatoes, backed up by a steaming pot of fragrant coffee, which the German boy prepared in short order.
“I move that Meyer Dinkelspeil be appointed chief cook and bottle washer of this camp,” said Jack, when the meal was concluded.
And the motion was carried by acclamation.
CHAPTER XI.
HIS NAME WAS MEEN FUN.
The sun was just rising above the distant horizon next morning when Jack woke up, pushed open the folds of the canvas of the tent occupied by himself and Charlie Fox, and looked out.
He saw a figure poking around the cook stove under the awning erected to protect the cooking department from the weather, and his first idea was that it was Meyer preparing an early breakfast.
A second glance, however, assured him it was altogether a different sort of person from the fat German boy.
It was, in fact, a gaunt, sad-eyed Chinaman.
“B’gee!” he exclaimed, “it’s a Chink. He’ll be stealing some of our things if I don’t head him off.”