Nobody did nor said much for the next hour. There came one of those lazy lulls which hit you once in so often when you are tramping, and you just naturally lie back and take life easy, half asleep, half awake. It was half-past five, and getting dusky in the ravine, when suddenly a hermit thrush in the firs right behind the cabin emitted a peal of song, so startling in its nearness and beauty that every one of the six dozers roused with a start.
“Say, that’s some Caruso!” exclaimed Peanut. He rubbed his eyes, and added, “What’s the matter with you, Art? Where’s supper? You’re fired!”
Art laughed, and jumped out of the shelter, giving orders as he went.
“Water, Lou. Rob and Frank, more wood. Peanut, you lazy stiff, get out the bacon and light the lantern. Mr. Rogers, more boughs for the beds.”
“Yes, sir,” the others laughed, as they scattered quickly on their errands.
It was dark when supper was ready, and outside of the cozy shelter of the cabin and the great boulder facing it, with the fire burning briskly, it was cold. The boys had all put on their sweaters. But the boulder threw the warmth of the fire back under the lean-to, and they sat along the edge of it, their plates on their laps, the fragrance of new steeped tea in their nostrils, and of sizzling bacon, and made a meal which tasted like ambrosia. The spinach was an especial luxury, for this time it had soaked long enough to be soft and palatable. Their only regret was that Art hadn’t cooked more of it.
“Let’s soak some over night, and have it for breakfast,” Peanut suggested, amid hoots of derision from the rest.
“We’ll have fresh bread, though,” said Art. “I’m going to bake some in a tin box somebody has left here in a corner of the hut.”
“How’ll you make bread without yeast?” asked Rob.
Art produced a little sack of baking powder from his pack. “With this, and powdered milk, and powdered egg,” he answered. “You make me up a good fire of coals, and I’ll show you.”