Fred arose, smiling rather sheepishly, but not at all angry. He brushed off his clothes, and joined in the laugh that followed.
"It's your turn next," observed the young millionaire. "I'll have to keep my weather eye open, Fred."
"All right," said the lad who had been tripped.
"Well, Hannibal—Alphabet—Jones; art ready for the gathering of the clans who hunger after the flesh-pots of Egypt?" asked Dick.
"All ready, Massa Dick," replied the colored cook. "Come on."
"First down! One wish-bone to gain!" called Walter Mead, as he took his place at the table set under the tent fly.
For the next five minutes the boys were so busy eating the roast chicken, corn bread and other good things that Hannibal-and-the-rest-of-it-Jones, with his knowledge of Southern cookery had provided, that they said not a word. Then, with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction, Bill observed:
"There certainly is nothing like a good meal."
"Unless it's two," added Bricktop. "I didn't much fancy Dick's plan of taking a professional cook along when we came to camp this year, because it used to be fun to do it ourselves, but our cooking was never like this."
"Never, never, never!" exclaimed Fred. "I'll have a little more chicken, if you don't mind, Dick."
