“Listen to the poets,” jibed Bill. “Homer and Milton have nothing on them.”
“Don’t mind his knocking, Ross,” said Teddy. “He’s only envious because he can’t rise to our heights. He’s like that fellow that Wordsworth tells us about:
“‘A primrose by the river’s brim
A yellow primrose was to him
And nothing more.’”
“Well, what more was it?” grinned Bill, stubbornly holding his ground.
“A hopeless case,” groaned Teddy. “If he heard a bobolink singing, he’d ask whether it was good to eat.”
“What is this anyway?” laughed Fred. “It sounds like elocution day at Rally Hall.”
“Talking about eats,” chimed in Lester, “what’s the matter with getting our stuff off the boat before it gets dark? Mark will have plenty of fish with 155 him when he gets back, and with what we can supply we ought to be able to get up a nifty little supper.”
“Count me in on this,” said Ross. “I’ve got quite a cargo of supplies on the Sleuth, and we’ll all chip in together.”
“The more the merrier,” cried Lester, accepting the offer. “I imagine Mark doesn’t have much variety in his diet, and we’ll see that to-night at least the old man has a bang-up meal.”
“They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” observed Teddy, “and if we fill him up, he’ll be all the more ready to loosen up and tell us all he knows.”