“Thanks,” laughed the Rambler. “I hope you’ll think my flapjacks are.”
“What! did I hear aright?” cried Don. “Flapjacks!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, joy!” gurgled Sam.
“And do make at least two or three pailfuls,” pleaded Don.
The fire crackling noisily sent columns of bluish smoke rising high above the hills. As the shadows deepened and stars began to twinkle in the sky, the dancing light crept farther and farther out until objects in a vast circle were lifted from the surrounding gloom.
Dave with his frying-pan was the object of universal attention. The lad had learned the art of making flapjacks from the Wyoming cowboys. With a skill almost equal to theirs he cooked panful after panful, while enthusiastic comments were continually heard. Carl Alvin, acting for the Rangers, joined in.
“I’ll give you fair warning, boys,” he grinned. “We’re going to be flapjack rustlers to-night; eh, Chaney?”
“Believe me, that’s true,” responded the Ranger.
Men and boys certainly had a great meal that night; at least, every one said so; and furthermore all agreed, too, that the finest dinner in the finest restaurant on earth could never have tasted any better.