For a week, therefore, little was talked of but tents, food supplies, cameras, and fishing tackle, and little was done that was not a preparation in some way for the trip.
"And let's make it the real thing," proposed Jimmy, eagerly, "—yes, even to Mrs. Chilton's bugs and spiders," he added, with a merry smile straight into that lady's severely disapproving eyes. "None of your log-cabin-central-dining-room idea for us! We want real camp-fires with potatoes baked in the ashes, and we want to sit around and tell stories and roast corn on a stick."
"And we want to swim and row and fish," chimed in Pollyanna. "And—" She stopped suddenly, her eyes on Jamie's face. "That is, of course," she corrected quickly, "we wouldn't want to—to do those things all the time. There'd be a lot of quiet things we'd want to do, too—read and talk, you know."
Jamie's eyes darkened. His face grew a little white. His lips parted, but before any words came, Sadie Dean was speaking.
"Oh, but on camping trips and picnics, you know, we expect to do outdoor stunts," she interposed feverishly; "and I'm sure we want to. Last summer we were down in Maine, and you should have seen the fish Mr. Carew caught. It was— You tell it," she begged, turning to Jamie.
Jamie laughed and shook his head.
"They'd never believe it," he objected; "—a fish story like that!"
"Try us," challenged Pollyanna.
