“I see something like a cabin over there,” said Joe, pointing to a corner in the woods where great oak trees towered above all others in the grove.  Even in December some brown leaves clung to these giants of the forest, that now rustled a gentle welcome to the boys in the Fire Bird.

Ned swung up as close as the wagon road would allow, and presently the party had “disembarked,” and were scampering through the woods toward the abandoned hut of an old woodchopper.

“Great catch!” exclaimed Tom.  “If there is one thing I like it is an outdoor hut with an indoor place on a cold day.”

“We’ve got a bag of charcoal, you know,” Roger reminded them, for Norah had secretly given that part of the equipment to Roger personally.

“That’s right,” assented Ned, “Then run over to the car and fetch it.  Norah is an all-right girl, isn’t she?”

“I would call her a peach, whoever she may be,” added Roland as he gathered up some dry bits of wood on his way to the cabin.

“Norah’s our cook,” declared Roger with an implied rebuke in his voice, for it did seem to him every one should have been aware of that important fact.

“Beg your pardon,” said Roland.  “I have a profound respect for such a cook as your refreshing Norah—­I say refreshing advisedly,” making a grab at the basket Joe and Nat were carrying.

“Here we are,” called Tom, who was somewhat in advance.  “And the door is not barred.”

Roger was back with the bag of charcoal, and now they all entered the old hut.  The place had evidently been long ago left to the squirrels and wood birds, but it was clean, save for the refuse of dry leaves and bits of bark, remnants of other winters, when the broken windows accepted what the winds chose to hurl in and scatter about the old woodchopper’s cabin.

“Hurrah!” shouted Roger, inadvertently spilling his prized bag of charcoal.

“We don’t light the fire there,” said Nat “Better pick that up and dump it on the fireplace.  Isn’t this great, though?  Glad I came!  Fellows, help yourselves,” and he stretched out on a rude board bench that lined one side of the place.

“Get up!” insisted Tom.  “Do you suppose for one instant that you do not have to work?  I assign you to the task of striking the matches.”

It occurred to Roger that some boys, big ones at that, might be just as silly as girls—­in fact, more silly than most girls, for when they said foolish things they invariably took the trouble to laugh at their own attempts.  Now, thought Roger, girls never do that.  Close upon the heels of that thought sprang into the little fellow’s heart the wish that Dorothy might have been along.  She would know just how to arrange the dinner so that the big fellows did not get the best pieces.

Nat had already begun at his task—­he was striking matches furiously by the old stone fireplace, watching the dry leaves blaze up and then die out quickly.