This put them in mind of dinner, and that if they did not cook it, it would not be ready for them as it used to be at home. They were inclined to let dinner take its chance, but buttered biscuits were rather wearisome, so they concluded to cook the dinner first, and make the raft afterwards. It was now very hot in the stockade, so the fire was lit under the teak-tree in the shade, the duck singed, and hung on a double string from a hazel rod stuck in the ground. By turning it round the double string would wind up, and when left to itself unwind like a roasting-jack. The heat of the huge fire they made, added to that of the summer sun, was too great--they could not approach it, and therefore managed to turn the duck after a fashion with a long stick. After they had done this some time, working in their shirtsleeves, they became impatient, and on the eve of quarrelling from mere restlessness. “It’s no use our both being here,” said Mark. “One’s enough to cook.” “One’s enough to be cooked,” said Bevis. “Cooking is the most hateful thing I ever knew.” “Most awful hateful. Suppose we say you shall do it to-day and I do it to-morrow, instead of being both stuck here by this fire?” “Why shouldn’t you do it to-day, and _I_ do it to-morrow?” “Toss up, then,” said Mark, producing a penny. “Best two out of three.” “O! no,” said Bevis. “You know too many penny dodges. No, no; I know-- get the cards, shuffle them and cut, and who cuts highest goes off and does as he likes--” “Ace highest?” “Ace.” The pack was shuffled, and Mark cut a king. Bevis did not got a picture-card, so he was cook for that day. “I shall take the matchlock,” said Mark. “That you won’t.” “That I shall.” “You won’t, though.” “Then I won’t do anything,” said Mark, sulking. “It’s not fair; if you had cut king you would have had the gun.” Bevis turned his duck, poking it round with the stick, then he could not help admitting to himself that Mark was right. If he had cut a king he would have taken the gun, and it was not fair that Mark should not do so. “Very well,” he said. “Take it; mind it’s my turn to-morrow.” Mark went for the matchlock, and came out of the stockade with it. But before he had gone many yards he returned into the hut, and put it up on the slings. Then he picked out his fishing-rod from the store-room, and his perch-line and hooks, mixed some mustard and water in his tin mug, and started off. Bevis, who had sat down far enough from the fire to escape the heat, did not notice him the second time.