"Same here."

Another onslaught on the kettle, and its contents were emptied.

"I feel better," said Dave. "Oh ho, what comes next?"

"Home-made preserves," replied Bob; "open that box, Dick, and take out what you want."

Silence ensued for a few minutes. The Ramblers were busy.

At last, with a sigh of satisfaction, Dave pushed his plate away.

"Feel just like taking a doze, fellows," he said. "Don't wake me up."

"No, you're not going to turn in just yet," laughed Bob.

"What! Anything else on the programme?"

"Yes, the tin-pan brigade. Grab your plates and stuff. We clean up right after every meal."

"Isn't he the bossy thing?" drawled Dave. "Pitch in, fellows, I've got an inspiration for a poem, and—"

Four hands seized the poet laureate, four sturdy arms hustled him to a standing position.

"Going to join in the housekeeping?"

"Yes, yes," laughed Dave. "Let up, Sam Randall and Dick Travers, or I'll souse you both in the river."

Cleaning up was finished in short order.

The boys decided to turn in early, for they knew that they had a long day before them.

Beds required some time to make, on account of the inexperience of the young woodsmen. A log was placed at the head of each and over this fragrant twigs of hemlock and other firs. The stems were kept as much to the bottom of the layer as possible, the boys continuing their work until the beds were thick enough to insure comfort. The finishing touches consisted in spreading rubber blankets, which being finally accomplished, the Ramblers were supplied with beds that one and all declared to be the best they had ever used.

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