"How can any steam come out of it when it's soldered up tight?" replied Harry.
"You don't mean to tell me that you've put the can on the fire without punching a hole in the top?"
"Of course I have. What on earth should I punch a hole in it for?"
"Because—" cried Tom, hastily springing up.
But he was interrupted by a report like that of a small cannon: a cloud of ashes rose over the fire, and a shower of soup fell just where Tom had been lying.
"That's the reason why," resumed Tom. "The steam has burst the can, and the soup has gone up."
"We've got another can," said Harry, "and we'll punch a hole in that one. What an idiot I was not to think of its bursting! It's a good thing that it didn't hurt us. I should hate to have the newspapers say that we had been blown up and awfully mangled by soup."
The other can of soup was safely heated, and the boys made a comfortable supper. They drove a stake in the sand, and fastened the boat's painter securely to it, and then "turned in."
"No tide to rouse us up to-night, boys," said Harry, as he rolled himself in his blanket. "I sha'n't wake up till daylight."
"We'd better take an early start," remarked Tom. "We haven't got on very far, because we started so late this morning. If we get off by six every morning, we can lie off in the middle of the day, and start again about three o'clock. It's no fun rowing with the sun right overhead."