pausing in his task whenever a boat went up or down the river.
“Say, Dick,” he called, “you ought to bestir yourself to-morrow and clean that oil stove. I can smell it out here.”
“Oil stoves always smell,” answered Dick from the galley.
“Not if you keep them clean. Maybe it needs new wicks.”
“Maybe it does. And maybe if you don’t finish paring those potatoes in the next hour or two we’ll have them for breakfast instead of supper.”
“I like your cheek,” murmured Chub resuming his task with a sigh. “I’m fairly working my hands off out here. What’s that loafer Roy doing anyhow? Why don’t you put him at work?”
“Don’t you worry about him. I’ve got him busy all right,” was the reply. “Say, did we order any salt, Chub? If we did I can’t find it.”
“Send Roy out here to pare these potatoes and I’ll look for it,” responded Chub insinuatingly.
“We’ve found it,” called Dick. “Aren’t you nearly done?”
“Sure; all done; been done for hours.” Chub
