Ken’s knife was of the massive and useful sort that contains a whole array of formidable tools.  These included a can-opener, which now did duty on the smoked tins.  It had been previously used to punch holes in the tops of the cans before they went among the coals—­“for we don’t want the blessed things blowing up,” Ken had said.  Nothing at all was the matter with the contents of the cans, however, in spite of the strange process of cookery.  The Sturgises ate peas and baked beans on chunks of unbuttered bread (cut with another part of Ken’s knife) and decided that nothing had ever tasted quite so good.

“No dish-washing, at any rate,” said Ken; “we’ve eaten our dishes.”

Kirk chose to find this very entertaining, and consumed another “bread-plate,” as he termed it, on the spot.

The cooking being finished, more gnarly apple-wood was put on the fire, and the black, awkward shadows of three figures leaped out of the bare wall and danced there in the ruddy gloom.  Bedtime loomed nearer and nearer as a grave problem, and Ken and Felicia were silent, each wondering how the floor could be made softest.

“The Japanese sleep on the floor,” Ken said, “and they have blocks of wood for pillows.  Our bags are the size, and, I imagine, the consistency, of blocks of wood. N’est-ce pas, oui, oui?”

“I’d rather sleep on a rolled-up something-or-other out of my bag than on the bag itself, any day—­or night,” Felicia remarked.

“As you please,” Ken said; “but act quickly.  Our brother yawns.”

“Bedtime, honey,” Felicia laughed to Kirk.  “Even queerer than supper-time was.”

“A bed by night, a hard-wood floor by day,” Ken misquoted murmurously.

“Hard-wood!” Felicia sniffed. “Hard wood!”

The problem now arose:  which was most to be desired, an overcoat under you to soften the floor, or on top of you to keep you warm?

“If he has my overcoat, it’ll do both,” Ken suggested.  “Put his sweater on, too.”  “But what’ll you do?” Kirk objected.

“Roll up in your overcoat, of course,” Ken said.

This also entertained Kirk.

“No, but really?” he said, sober all at once.

“Don’t you fret about me.  I’ll haul it away from you after you’re asleep.”

And Kirk snuggled into the capacious folds of Ken’s Burberry, apparently confident that his brother really would claim it when he needed it.

Ken and Felicia sat up, feeding the fire occasionally, until long after Kirk’s quiet breathing told them that he was asleep.

“Well, we’ve made rather a mess of things, so far,” Ken observed, somewhat cheerlessly.

“We were ninnies not to think that none of the stuff would have come,” Felicia said.  “We’ll have to do something before to-morrow night.  This is all right for once, but—!”

“Goodness knows when the things will come,” said Ken, poking at the fore-stick.  “The old personage said that all the freight, express, everything, comes by that weird trolley-line, at its own convenience.”