"
Bud was rubbing the cold and chafed wrists of the boy beside the fire,
which one of the boys had replenished. The boys surrounded little Dick
with many inquiries, but Bud shooed them away.
"Don't yer answer a bloomin' question until yer gits yer system packed
with cooky's best grub. I reckon, now, yer could eat erbout eighteen o'
them twelve-inch flapjacks what Bill makes, an' drink somethin' like a
gallon o' ther fust coffee what comes out o' ther pot."
Little Dick smiled, as he watched with glistening eyes the rapid
movements of Bill McCall as he hustled over his fire, the air redolent
with the odors of coffee and bacon and griddle cakes, so that his mouth
fairly watered.
When Bill shouted breakfast, Ted and Bud sat Dick down and loaded his
plate with good things, which he caused to disappear in a hurry.
But after a while he was stuffed like a Christmas turkey, and put his
tin plate away with a sigh, and absolutely cleaned.
"Now," said Ted, when he saw this good sign, "where have you been all
day and all night? We've been scared about you.
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