“Beans, bacon, potatoes, bread, condensed milk, coffee, tea, butter, canned peas and tomatoes, stewed apricots--” Chub groaned. “No more, I beg of you! I’m going to look at the map, fellows, and if there’s a place we can reach by seven o’clock where we can buy a good meal, we’ll go there, rain or no rain! What my soul demands is a course dinner, with clams, soup, fish, roast, game, salad--” The rest was lost, for he had disappeared up the iron stairway to the wheel-house. Dick laid down his book again. “I think I could stand a few of those things myself,” he said wistfully. “So could I,” said Roy. “You’ve done mighty well, old chap, with what you’ve had to cook, but there’s nothing like an occasional change. It would be jolly if we could find a hotel, wouldn’t it? One of those swell summer resort places where they have ten courses and four kinds of dessert. What about it, Chub?” “All aboard for The Overlook,” answered Chub gayly as he came down the steps. “It’s only seven miles up on the other shore. Shall we start now?” “What is it, a hotel?” asked Dick. “Yes, a big one, too. I’ve heard of it often. It’s where the swells go in summer.” “That’s the place for me, then,” replied Roy. “I don’t think it’s raining as hard as it was. Let’s go out and have a look.” Not only had the rain somewhat abated, but there were signs of clearing. Twenty minutes later the _Slow Poke_ was on her way again. That evening the captain and crew of the _Slow Poke_ “re-entered society,” as Chub put it. They made a landing before six, finding a convenient place a few hundred yards from a big hotel which stood on a bluff almost overhanging the river, and at seven were seated at a table in the great dining-room, fairly reveling in the feast. They had dressed in their best clothes, and made a very presentable appearance. “This,” observed Chub, as he spread a yard-square napkin over his knees and looked at the menu, “is about what the doctor ordered. Shall we dally with a little of the caviar, Roy, or descend at once upon the cherrystone clams. Let us bear in mind that we have all the evening to do justice to this meal, and not be hasty. The French, Dickums, draw a fine distinction between a _gourmand_ and a _gourmet_. The former is merely a glutton, while the latter is a connoisseur, an epicure. For me, a few of the clams, a little of the consommé--with radishes and cucumbers, some of the bluefish, a wee portion of the boiled fowl, a slice of beef, some potatoes, cauliflower, beets, and--yes, macaroni _au gratin_, a taste of the raspberry sherbet, a bit of the salad--” “Oh, let up, for goodness’ sake!” begged Roy. “You make me feel as though I had already had a big dinner. Let’s cut the clams out and get down to business; I’m hungry. I want soup and lots of it. Pass the bread, Dick.” “You talk like a _gourmand_,” said Chub sorrowfully. “I beg of you not to spoil your appetite with bread. Just cast your eye over the list of things to come, Roy, and hesitate.”