"Right-ho!" responded Tommy. "There's a cold chicken somewhere in the baggage. You chaps might unpack while I forage about the kitchen and get things ready."
He disappeared through the door, taking off his coat, and Mortimer and I set to work upon the various packages which we had brought with us. We unearthed an appetising-looking fowl, a ham, two or three nice crusty loaves, a jar of butter, and numerous other aids to successful salmon fishing, including enough beer and whisky to stock a modest hotel.
We were contemplating the latter in a kind of pleased reverie, when Tommy came back with a tablecloth under his arm, and a trayload of accessories.
"I say," he began, "it's deuced funny, but I can't find any forks and spoons. Plenty of glasses and plates and knives, but not another bally thing in the place."
Mortimer burst out laughing.
"I expect your aged friend eats with his fingers," he said.
"Or else someone's been in and cleared the lot," I suggested.
"Oh, they can't have done that," said Tommy; "or else the boat wouldn't be here."
"Well, we shall have to do what we can without," remarked Mortimer. "You fellows can tear off a leg each, and I'll have the pickings."
We pulled out a table into the centre of the room, and while I helped Mortimer arrange the feast, Tommy went into the kitchen to have another look for the missing silver.