"Just at the present moment, the stuff in that pot interests me more," declared Dick Travers, with a laugh.
"Hello—that must be the Trailers."
The latter remark, which came from Tom Clifton, was caused by the report of a gun, then several others, at a point not far distant.
"Well, supper is ready, boys," announced Dave.
"And we for it, I can tell you that, Chubby," returned Bob, promptly.
Sitting in front of the tents, the Ramblers enjoyed their meal as they rarely had, even under similar circumstances.
"If my appetite keeps up like this, I'm afraid my father will soon be ruined," observed young Travers, with comical gravity.
"If there is enough salt left, I'll cook a special stew for you. Want it?" asked Tom Clifton, kindly.
But the Ramblers with singular unanimity declared that they could not think of putting him to so much trouble.
"Dave Brandon," began Sam Randall, suddenly, "as a self-appointed committee of one, I want to know if your great American poem is nearly finished."