Part 5 (1/2)

”Let's make a regular camp dinner,” suggested Ned. ”Buy some potatoes and sliced bacon, make tea or coffee--”

”In what?” asked Dorothy.

”Oh, yes, that's so. We did not bring the lunch basket. By the way, you have not seen the basket mother received for her birthday. It has everything for a lunch on the road; a lamp to cook over, tea and coffee pot, enameled cups, plates, good sharp knives--the neatest things, all in a small basket. Mother never lets us take it out, when we're alone.

She thinks so much of it.”

”I should think she would,” remarked Dorothy. ”But we were speaking of a camp lunch--”

”Yes, let's,” joined in Nat. ”It's no end of fun, roasting potatoes in a stone furnace.”

”And toasting bacon on hat pins,” suggested Tavia.

So it was agreed the camp lunch should be their meal, Dorothy and Ned doing most of the work of buying and finding things fresh enough to eat in the old-fas.h.i.+oned dusty store, while Tavia and Nat tasted pickles and tried buns, until Dorothy interposed, declaring if either ate another mouthful before the real meal was ready they would not be allowed a single warm morsel.

”Just one potato,” pleaded Nat. ”I do so love burnt potatoes.”

”And a single slice of bacon,” urged Tavia. ”I haven't had that kind of bacon since we were out at the Cedars, and I think it is so delicious.”

”Then save your appet.i.tes,” insisted Dorothy, ”and help with the work.

No looking for fresh spring water this time. Nat, carry this bottle of milk. Ned has paid for the bottle and all, so we will not have to come back with the jar.”

The paper bundles were finally put into the car, and then, turning back to the woodland road, it was not difficult to find a place suitable to build the camp-fire, and set table on a big stump of a newly-felled tree that Tavia said made her more hungry than ever, for the chips smelt like vinegar and mola.s.ses, she declared.

So pleasant was the camp life our friends had embarked upon, they did not notice how far the afternoon was getting away from them, and before they had any inclination to start out on the road again, the sun had rolled itself up into a big red ball, and was sinking down behind the hills.

”Oh, it may be dark before we get back to Dalton,” said Dorothy in alarm. ”We should have started an hour ago.”

”But the potatoes were not done,” Tavia reminded her, ”and we never could have left without eating them after carrying cords and cords of wood to the oven.”

”Get aboard,” called Nat, ”I'll take the wheel now, Ned. I'm entirely thawed out.”

It had certainly been a delightful day, even the accident at the spring was now merely an event to laugh at, while the meal on the big chestnut stump, beside the camp-fire, had been so enjoyable, and now, all that remained was the pleasant ride home. That is all that appeared to remain, but automobile rides, like chickens, should not be counted until all is over, and the machine is safely put up for the night.

Chickens have the same tendency as have autos toward surprises--and disappointments.

”There's a hill,” remarked Ned, quite unnecessarily, as a long stretch of brown road seemed to bound up in front of them.

”A nice climb,” acquiesced Nat. ”Now, Birdy, be good. Straight ahead.

No flunking now--steady,” and he ”coaxed” the machine into a slow, even run, that became more and more irksome as the grade swelled.

”But when we get at the top?” asked Tavia.

”We will not stay there long,” answered Nat, ”for if there is one thing this machine likes to do it is to coast down hill.”

The Fire-Bird made its way up the steep grade, and presently, as Nat predicted, turned the hill-crest and ”flew” down the other side.

The swiftness of the motion made conversation impossible, for the machine was coasting, the power being off, and surely the Fire-Bird was ”flying through the air.”

Reaching the level stretch again, Nat threw in the clutch, but a grinding and clanking noise answered his movement of the lever.