When the chicken,—delicately served on the soda crackers,—the apples, bananas, and gingerbread are distributed, and the cheese toasted—in a fashion—at one of the lamps, the merry six leave not a crumb to tell the tale. It is true that a conscious vacancy still exists in the six hungry stomachs—such appetites have these young wheelers; but they are refreshed and no one thinks of complaining.
The merry meal finished, weariness and the patter of rain incline the girls to rest, and soon silence falls upon the camp, broken only by the sighing of the wind among the dark pine boughs, and the occasional chirp of some sleepy bird.
Then Starrett, also, wrapped in his waterproof coat, throws himself down to rest beneath the shelter of a friendly pine close by.
Joe, left alone as the sentinel, falls to thinking over the situation, wondering where they are and whether they have missed the right road. He walks about uneasily and then stands looking up and down the stretch of road. The tricycle lamp, which he has lighted to dispel the gloom, casts a yellow gleam over the tent and Starrett's shrouded figure, while beyond and all around are the pines with their swaying branches and the long black vistas between. Joe walks back and forth, in the rain, vainly trying to think in which direction they are to proceed.
"DE YOUNG GEMMAN AN' I MAKE DIS TENT TO KEEP DE YOUNG LADIES DRY."
He has been wondering thus for perhaps five minutes, when he becomes aware of a pair of fiery eyes watching him from the shadows. Joe starts. He does not know what peculiar class of wild beasts inhabits Cape Cod, but there are the eyes plainly enough. He stops and stands motionless. The eyes move, come boldly forward, and Joe, now doubly astonished, sees full in the glare of the tricycle lamp—a big grayish cat!
And the cat has a nickel-plated collar with a ribbon attached. Joe knows that even on Cape Cod no wild beasts roam about, in summer storms, with nickeled and be-ribboned collars, but what can a cat be doing away in the depths of a pine forest? And then he suddenly concludes that the cat's home can not be far away. The gray cat comes purring about his knees. Joe is fond of cats, so he takes it in his arms and fondles its wet fur, and it proves to be company for him and really helps him to forget the discomfort of the rain.
At about seven o'clock in the evening, however, the rain slackens, the clouds scatter, and rifts of light appear through the trees. And just as Joe is thinking of rousing the club for another "spin," he hears a whistle and a heavy step from across the road. Then an old farmer fellow of about forty-five, in search of a lost cow, comes to an abrupt and amazed halt at confronting among the pines Joe, the gray cat, Starrett's recumbent figure, the tent, and the glimmering tricycle wheels. He stands speechless until Joe's voice breaks the spell.
"Good-ebenin', sar," says Joe. "Can you tell me if dis is de road to Curtin Harbor?"