“Who’s all right, fellows?” asked Fred.
“Ned Wayland!” came the unanimous shout.
“And now,” said Melvin, “it’s up to Billy Burton to give us a song. Tune up, Billy.”
“Great Scott!” protested Billy, “haven’t you fellows any feelings at all? It’s cruelty to animals to ask me to sing after such a feed as that.”
But they persisted and Billy finally obliged with what the boys called a pathetic little ballad, entitled: “I Didn’t Raise My Dog to be a Sausage.”
It met with such approval that he gave as an encore: “Mother, Bring the Hammer, There’s a Fly on Baby’s Head.” This “went great,” as they say in vaudeville, but despite uproarious applause, the “Sweet Singer of the Wabash” declared that that was his limit for the night.
“A story from Slim!” cried Teddy, and, “A story! A story!” clamored the other boys.
“Ah, what’s the use,” said Slim, with a gloom that the twinkle in his eyes belied. “You wouldn’t believe it, anyway.”
“I would,” said Melvin solemnly. “Cross my heart and hope to die if I wouldn’t.”
“Well,” began Slim cautiously, “there was a fellow up in Maine once that was spending the winter with a pal of his, trapping in the woods. They were about twenty miles off from the nearest town, and every month or so one of them would have to go to town to lay in a stock of provisions.