"Sardines, baked beans, crackers and cheese, sir," sang out Dave. "Have tea or coffee, sir?"
"Quit your fooling, and trot out the stuff," put in Dick; "I haven't had a bite for three solid hours."
"Cricky! a nice place, this," observed Tom Clifton, with his mouth full, a few minutes later. "Let's explore those hills back there after lunch, fellows."
"Hello, how are you getting on, 'pirates'?" shouted Bob.
"Great!" answered Nat. "Got any skeeters over your way?"
"Any number," grumbled Dave; "had forty-seven bites already."
The afternoon was spent in roaming around. The Ramblers found a tumble-down shanty, evidently built by gunners, and they determined to take possession of it. The fog had entirely cleared away and the sun occasionally peeped forth between gaps in the masses of whitish clouds. Shadows chased each other over the landscape in rapid succession, trees, now bright with color and light suddenly changed to dark green masses, then all became gray and sombre until another rift in the clouds let through the flood of light.
Along the bay, a flat, marshy expanse seemed to extend for miles, its surface being dotted with ponds.
"That's where those six-legged little pests come from," declared Dave; "they breed in the swampy tracts. Fellows, it's a good thing we are going to camp in the hills to-night."
"We'd be eaten alive down there by the shore," agreed Bob; then he added: "Let's go and get our stuff now."