“Apples, of course,” replied the injured cook. “What did you suppose it was?” “Well, if those are apples then they’re flavored with something funny,” declared Tom. “Where’s the can you used?” Dick brought two empty tin cans up to the table, which was made from packing boxes. “The paper labels soaked off,” he explained, “but there were cans of apples on top and below these so I thought it was all right. Isn’t it?” Tom took a smell, and cried out: “Say, fellows, he dumped a can of quinces in the apple pie stuff and baked that all together and then used baking soda for powdered sugar! Oh wow! What a taste!” There was a general laugh, and Dick replied with: “Well, if you fellows think you can do any better you can have my job. I’m sick of being cook.” “Tut, tut! It’s all right,” said Tom hastily. “We were only fooling. You’re doing fine, Dick, only, after this, smell of a can if it hasn’t got a label pasted on it, and taste the powdered sugar.” But if the pies were a failure, the rest of the dinner was good, and later on Dick proved that he could make good pastry when he used the right ingredients. They had more fish that day, as luck was good, but the game was scarce, as might have been expected at that season of the year. After dinner, the rest of the day was spent in getting the camp into better shape, and making the beds more comfortable. The boys were in the habit of making up a camp fire early in the evening, and sitting in the glow of it to talk. They did this on their second night, and when it had about died down Tom tossed on some heavy sticks of wood and remarked: “Well, I’m going to turn in. I’m tired and I want some sleep. To-morrow we’ll take a long boat ride.” “When are we going to the old mill?” asked Jack. “Oh, maybe we can try that soon if we like,” said Tom. It was nearly midnight, as Tom ascertained by looking at his watch, when he was suddenly awakened by hearing something moving about near the sleeping tent. At first he thought it was one of his chums, and he called out: “Who’s that? You, Jack?” There was no answer, and, looking across to the other cots, our hero saw the forms of his companions under the covers. They were all quiet. “There’s some one out there,” he murmured. Rising cautiously he stepped to the flap of the canvas shelter and peered out. In the dying glow of the camp fire he saw an old man silently walking toward the tents. “For gracious sake!” breathed Tom to himself. “If that isn’t the old hermit of the mill I’m a lobster! I wonder what he’s doing here?” With anxious eyes he watched, and as the moon came out from behind a cloud, to add to the glow of the campfire, Tom saw the light glint on a gun. “He’s looking for us!” whispered Tom. “I wonder what I’d better do?” CHAPTER VIII OLD ACQUAINTANCES