As the draggled pair were making towards the hut, which stood about six feet from the fire, to follow his advice, its bark door was suddenly pushed wide open.  Forth stepped, or rather staggered, another boy, younger and shorter than Neal.  His tumbled fair hair was here and there adorned with a green pine-needle, which was not remarkable, considering that he had just arisen from a bed of pine boughs.  Sundry others were clinging to the surface of the warm, fleecy blankets in which he was wrapped, and his feet were thrust into a pair of moccasins.  He had the appearance and voice of a person awaking from sound sleep.

“I say, you fellows, it’s about time you got back!” he said, rubbing his heavy eyes, and addressing the hunters.  “I hope you’ve had some luck.  I dreamt that I was smacking my lips over a venison steak.”

“Smack ’em w’en you git it, honey!” remarked Uncle Eb, while he mixed a plain batter of flour, baking-powder, and cold water, which he dropped in big spoonfuls on a frying-pan, previously greased, proceeding to fry the mixture over his camp-fire.

The thin, round cakes which presently appeared were the “flapjacks” despised by Cyrus as insufficient diet.

Without waiting to answer the new boy’s greeting, the hunters had disappeared into the bark shanty.  When next they issued forth they were rigged up Indian fashion in moccasins and blankets, the latter being doubled and draped over their underclothing,—­of which luckily they had a dry supply,—­and gathered round their waists with leather straps.  Knitted caps, usually worn when sleeping, adorned their heads.

“You see, we followed Dol’s example and your advice, Uncle Eb,” said Cyrus, as they seated themselves by the camp-fire.  “And I tell you these make tip-top dressing-gowns when you’re feeling a little bit chilly after a drenching.  We didn’t bring along a second suit of tweeds for the simple reason that we mean to do some pretty rough tramping with our packs on our backs, and then a fellow is likely to grumble at any unnecessary pound of weight he carries.”

“Shuah—­shuah!” assented Uncle Eb.

“And that is why we left our fishing-rods behind,” continued Garst.  “You see, our main object this trip is neither hunting nor fishing.  But a creel of gamey trout from Squaw Pond would come in handy now to replenish our larder.”

“Wal, I b’lieve I’ll fix up a rod to-mo-oh an’ hook a few, fer de pork’s givin’ out.  Hain’t got mich use fer trout meself.  Dey’s kind o’ tasteless eatin’ if a man can git a bit o’ fat coon or a fatty [hare], let ’lone ven’zon.  Pork’s a sight better’n ’em to my mind.”

While Uncle Eb was giving his views on food, he was hurriedly “bilin’” coffee, frying unlimited flapjacks, and breaking up some crystal cakes of maple sugar, which he melted into a sirup, and poured over them.

  “De bell done chime
  Fer de breakfast time!”

he shouted gleefully when all was accomplished.  “Heah, yonkers!  I guess we may call dis meal breakfast jest as well as not, fer it’s neah to dawn now.”