But Miss Elkins spoke up before Mrs. Jones could finish.
“Cook hasn’t time to wash dishes this noon,” she said. “We’ve got to make camp before dark. Besides, we’re roughing it. I think it’s great!” and she, too, picked a sardine out of her tin by the tail, and dropped it upon a cracker.
Joe cast her a grateful glance, and she smiled at him sweetly. He decided then and there, as he put it to himself, that she was “all to the good.”
Meantime Mrs. Elkins, her mother, was watching Val, with fascinated eyes.
“What are you looking at, mother?” her daughter demanded. Bob’s eyes followed hers, and he gave a hoot of glee.
“A Charlie Chaplin sandwich!” he cried.
Then everybody looked at Val, who was grinning amiably, as he sat on a fallen log, making himself a sandwich, between two crackers, of the entire bill of fare—sardines, jam, and baked beans. This he consumed in exactly three bites, and proceeded to concoct another one.
“Well,” he said, as he made this second, “you mix ’em all inside, don’t you? Why not first? Saves time.”
“Ugh!” said Mrs. Jones. “I’m afraid I wasn’t born to rough it.”
“Efficiency, I call it,” said her husband. “Why not, as he says. Think I’ll try it.”