The stout boy smiled.
“I’ll admit that sometimes he’s a little too free in expressing his opinions; but he’s fair and square as a chap can be. You’re lazy, Larry—so am I.” He ended the sentence with a good-natured laugh.
By this time the workers were coming back. Enough wood had been gathered for the entire night, and a sufficient quantity of balsam boughs for the beds was only waiting to be dragged into the glade.
Whistling cheerily, Dick Travers returned with pails of water, closely followed by Tom.
“Say, Dave, would you believe it,” remarked the former, “there’s a big bunch of longhorns grazing on the other side of these woods. Some of them have just crossed the creek a bit further down.”
“Gee!” exclaimed Larry. “Suppose they should come upon us while we’re asleep!”
Feeling sorry he had given way to his temper, he addressed this remark to Tom. Tom, however, preserved an icy silence.
“Cattle no hurt,” said Thunderbolt, reassuringly.
The meal was prepared in a surprisingly short time. Luscious slices of bacon sizzled away in the frying-pan; potatoes were baking on red-hot embers; while coffee-pots sent up clouds of hissing steam. Then there were crackers and cheese and preserves.
Any boy who could not have enjoyed the “spread” which Chef Tom Clifton prepared would have been in a pretty poor condition.