“Here, quit!” called Roland.  “Do you think we fellows are lined with matches?  We really might want one for the fire, you know.”

“Oh, certainly,” assented Nat, discontinuing his pastime.  “I was just trying the flue.”

“But I say, fellows,” remarked Tom seriously, “isn’t this great?  What do you suppose the place stands for?”

“A woodchopper’s cabin,” Ned replied.  “There was fine wood in these parts some years ago, before the telephone company bought up all the tall trees.  Uncle Frank—­Major Dale, you know—­was telling us only the other night about it.  Some ten years ago a telephone inspector came out here and bargained for the whole grove—­that is, all the good, sound trees.  Then the woodchoppers went back to Canada.”

“Glad they left their hut, at any rate,” remarked Tom, tossing an armful of dry wood on to the stone hearth.  “What do we cook?”

“Bacon, potatoes, cheese to toast, and—­let me see.  What else?” queried Nat, rummaging through the basket of supplies.

“Bread and butter, pepper and salt, and a whole cake,” announced Roger with unconcealed glee.

“I guess that’ll do,” drawled Tom.  “Sorry we didn’t think to fetch something ourselves.”

“Oh, this is my treat,” replied Nat.

“It was I who thought about the lunch,” Roger reminded him.

“That’s right, kid, you did.  But then, you are always hungry, which may, in a measure, account for your wonderful forethought.”

The blazing fire had by this time warmed the place comfortably, and it was jolly, indeed, to prepare the meal over the strong embers of good solid oak.

An old grate had been found about the place, and upon this the sliced bacon was spread, while the potatoes were dropped directly into the embers.  Norah had thought of everything, even paper napkins and picnic knives and forks.  There was, too, a bottle of olives and some cold ham in the very bottom of the basket.

“What’s to drink?” asked Ned, his tone implying that anything to drink had been forgotten.

“Oh, the jug of coffee!” exclaimed Joe.  “That’s in the car.  I’ll run and fetch it.”

The jug of coffee had been placed in a deep, enameled pan, which was to serve as coffee-pot in the warming process.

“Well, I say!” exclaimed Roland.  “Think I’ll change quarters.  I would like first rate to meet your Norah.”

“I’m first there,” put in Tom.  “I met her at the kitchen door as I went around for the oil can.  And I must say I rather like that shade of hair.  Our shortstop had it, and he claimed it was classic—­called it mahogany, too.”

The bacon sizzled merrily, the potatoes smelled “brown,” and soon all was ready.

It was a queer sort of picnic—­a “smoker,” Tom insisted, for something happened with the fire that caused the smoke to flare back into the cabin instead of going peaceably out of the little chimney.  But the boys did not mind that—­they were too interested in the meal.  Even Norah’s good nature could scarcely estimate on a dinner of this kind.  Eating seemed to cause hunger, instead of allaying the sensation.