The boys found their camp undisturbed, save for the visit of some small animal that had tried to carry off a tough paper bag filled with some small groceries. “The bacon’s all right this time,” commented Tom. “I guess we got the lynx that was taking it.” “And now for a square meal!” exclaimed Bert. “I’m nearly starved. Hustle, boys, and get some grub on to cook. Or, even if it’s cold, it doesn’t matter.” “Hustle yourself!” exclaimed Jack. “Everyone for himself, I’m going to open a can of chicken and make some sandwiches.” “Sardines for mine,” commented Tom. They had no bread, for their supply was gone, and the teamster from Wilden, whom they had engaged to bring in supplies, was not due until the next day. However, they made out very well with crackers, and ate, so Tom said, as much as if it had been a regular meal, instead of a lunch. “But we’ll have a regular supper,” declared Dick. “Will you cook it?” they asked him. “I sure will,” he answered, “though it isn’t my turn.” The edge taken off their appetites, they sat at ease about the camp, and talked of their adventure. Drawn up on shore was the skiff they had confiscated from the hermit. “I wonder if he’ll make much of a row when he finds it gone?” mused Jack. “What if he does?” asked Tom. “Either he took our boat, or some of his friends did--meaning Skeel or the two lads with him--so it’s only turn about if we took his craft. We had to get back to camp; didn’t we?” “Sure we did, and if he says anything we’ll tell him so,” came from Bert. “How are you coming on with that supper, Dick?” “Oh, I’ll start it pretty soon,” and, after some further talk the country lad began. He rummaged among the stores and soon an appetizing odor came from the kitchen tent. “That smells great!” exclaimed Jack. “Some kind of soup, anyhow,” declared Bert. “And he’s frying something,” added Tom. “You just let Dick alone and he’ll get up a meal. He’s a natural cook.” And the meal to which Dick called his chums a little later was certainly a good one--for boys out camping. There was a canned soup to start with, and then fried chicken. “Fried chicken--think of that!” cried Tom. “Talk about being swell!” “It’s only canned chicken, fried in butter, and seasoned a bit,” explained Dick modestly. “I opened some canned corn to go with it. Have some?” “Sure!” there came a chorus, and three plates were quickly passed toward the amateur cook. “One at a time,” he begged. “I’ve got some--” He paused for a moment and then cried: “The potatoes! They’re burning! I forgot ’em!” He made a rush for the cooking tent, ignoring the out-stretched plates, and the others became aware of a scorching odor. “Wow! but that’s mean!” exclaimed Dick ruefully, as he came back wiping the perspiration from his face. “They’re burned to nothing. The water all boiled off ’em. And they were sweets, too, the only ones we brought along,” he added. “Never mind,” consoled Tom. “We’ve got enough to eat without ’em.”