Meanwhile Arthur had gone to the beach, and returned with an armful of shavings and choppings from the wood which he had been trying to fashion into an oar. They were dry and fine, and were intended to serve as kindling whenever the time might come for kindling the signal fire. And now one thing more remained to be done. They had decided to have their fire on the platform in front of the camp--a place which was greatly superior to the beach for such a purpose, and which also would give them the advantage of a warm fire on a cool evening and a light close by their dwelling-place. So they went out to collect drift-wood, and carried up a large quantity to the place. Good stones were also selected for cooking purposes, and the cold lobsters were carefully brought from the beach, and deposited in the camp. But the labor of carrying the drift-wood up the steep bank showed them that it would be as well not to be too lavish with their fuel. In order to have the cheerfulness of brilliant light along with the gratefulness of warmth, they cut a quantity of brush, which they intended to throw on the fire from time to time. Thus, with a comfortable camp, and soft beds of moss, and plenty of fuel, and a pleasant fire, with food and drink, with fine weather and a charming view, the “B. O. W. C.” might be considered as tolerably happy. And so they would have been, if it had not been for one thing--a thing which revealed itself to them during their evening repast, and soon threw a gloom over their prospects. It was dark; the fire was lighted, and threw out a cheerful glow; the cold lobster was brought out, and the boys began to partake. For some time nothing was said. At last, the silence was broken by Bart. He had been twisting a leg of the lobster fastidiously in his fingers, and nibbling little morsels of it, in a way which did not look very much like the fashion of a hungry boy who had done a good day’s work, when suddenly he flung the lobster’s leg into the fire. “I can’t stand the abominable stuff any longer,” he cried. “Neither can I,” said Bruce. “Nor I”--“Nor I”--“Nor I”--said all the others; and the fragments of the lobster were all contemptuously thrown away. “What are we going to do about it?” asked Tom Crawford, mournfully. “I wouldn’t care if there was even a raw potato,” said Bart, “or a mouldy ship-biscuit, or an old dried turnip, or a bit of pork, or anything else to eat with it so as to take off the edge of it; but to eat nothing else but this everlasting lobster, lobster, lobster, is more than I can stand.” “Tea last night,” said Tom Crawford, dolefully, “lobster. Breakfast this morning, lobster. During the morning I felt hollow--lobster. At dinner, lobster. For my part, I’ve had enough of it.” “What can we do?” “I’m tired of shrimps.” “Bother shrimps.” “O for a good slice of bread and butter!” “Or a good mealy potato!” “Or a beefsteak!” “Or crackers and cheese!”