“How I’d like to be in an aeroplane lookin’ down upon it,” declared Cranny.
Finally the distant guns spoke at longer intervals, and at length ceased altogether.
“Yes,” said the Tacoma lad reflectively, “a jaunt into old Mexico would—— Oh, don’t shake your head, Dave—I reckon I’ll have to go—so near, you know. What! Lunch time already? By Jove! I’d almost forgotten about it. Let’s hurry—I want to hire that nag this afternoon.”
Recklessly he sprang for the trap-door, and several times the ladder threatened to collapse beneath the weight of the boys as they piled back into the room.
When they reached the lower floor, Tom explained to Cranny that he was “chef” for the afternoon.
“To-night Don takes a crack at it,” he added.
“And I reckon you’ll all want to take a crack at me after the frost is over,” grinned Don.
The Ramblers immediately got things under way. Dick kindled a fire in the old-fashioned open-grate; Bob brought forth the provisions and tin dishes, while stout Dave and Sam attended to various odds and ends.
Tom went about his duties with a stern and determined air, and Cranny, watching him with twinkling eyes, was before very long sniffing some delicious odors. A monster coffee-pot generously let the nature of its contents be known, and beans baked the day before in true lumberman’s style, now having the finishing touches supplied, helped to indicate that this meal at least would be no “frost.”
When the chef finally cried, “Fall in, fellows,” the others obeyed his summons with wonderful alacrity, and in a few moments the good things began to vanish like a flurry of snowflakes in the early spring.