"Dick, you get some fire-wood," directed Bob. "Chubby and I will cook. Don't be scared, fellows," he added, with a laugh.

"What shall Sam and I do?" asked Tom Clifton.

"Get a lot of spruce boughs for beds. We'll need a pile of it, too. Stir yourselves."

They trooped off to the woods, and the sound of chopping began. Dick Travers, with his arms full of sticks, was the first to rejoin them.

"Get all the stuff out, Chubby."

"Yes! Dump your wood down here. Better get some small twigs. Funny thing we didn't forget to bring matches. That's right, Dick. Nothing like having a lot of fuel."

A brisk fire was soon burning.

"Now we'll fix things up in great shape."

Bob trimmed three sticks.

"I'll drive one on each side of the fire, nail another across the top, then hang the kettles with a piece of wire. Want anything better than that, fellows? Fall to—peel some potatoes and onions. What's that, Dick? Yes, go ahead and help Sam and Tom."

Bob Somers placed two logs upon a mass of hot, glowing embers, sufficiently far apart to hold a frying-pan. Then some pieces of bacon began to sizzle.

In due course, the delicious odor of rabbit stew filled the air, and, as dusk began creeping on, the club gathered around the camp-fire.

Each helped himself to a plate of hot, savory stew and a cup of steaming coffee.

"This is all right," chuckled Dick.

"Never tasted anything better," said Bob, with his mouth full.

"Look at Tom. He eats like a primitive savage."

"Huh! You'd better not talk. You're eating with your fingers yourself. This isn't the place to put on any style, is it, Dick?"

"Of course not. Another plate for mine."

"Me, too," chimed in Dave.

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