careful and not dig up the ground with your boots when you crawl under.”
To Stanley’s impatient mind it seemed that they had waited many minutes before Bub gave the signal to emerge. “You stay here,” he whispered and I’ll fetch the dinner. Then we can eat as we walk along.”
In a short time Bub was back, triumphantly carrying the half-cooked partridge on a piece of birch bark. “Sorry we haven’t any napkins,” whimsically apologized the cook.
“If I had one I’d eat it,” declared Stanley. “Please give me my share.”
“There you are, my son, only don’t bolt your victuals,” cautioned Bub.
Stanley examined his portion with his nose wrinkling in disgust. “Why, it’s covered with ashes,” he complained. “And part of it isn’t cooked at all.”
“It is rather rare in spots,” admitted Bub, taking a mouthful. “But it will keep us alive for a while. By this time to-morrow you’d be glad to eat the whole bird, feathers and all. Why don’t you try? Things are never as bad as they look.”
“This is; it’s worse,” grimaced Stanley, nibbling at a charred morsel. “Why! Bub, it
