As nothing more could be done, the five boys adjourned to the camp, where Owen quickly completed his preparations for lunch. They had decided to have the heavy meal, called dinner, in the evening, so that the work of the day might not be interfered with.
When those who had been off hunting shellfish had returned, tired with their labors, it would be nice to gather around, and take their time in enjoying the bountiful meal that had been prepared by the cook appointed for that day.
Each of them expected to take a hand at this necessary job. In anticipation of the opportunity to shine as a talented _chef_ Bandy-legs had in secret been coaxing the hired girl at home to teach him a lot of things.
As his turn would come on the second day, he could hardly restrain his impatience. He surely calculated that when his chums saw what wonderful things _real talent_ could accomplish, they would easily vote him a prize.
His ambition was all right, but he would soon discover the vast difference between cooking at a gas range or the family coal stove and trying to accomplish the same result out in the wilds over an open wood fire.
Then, again, he had stuffed his head so very full of different recipes that the chances were poor Bandy-legs must get the formulas mixed, which would result in some mighty queer messes to be tried upon his patient campmates.
After the meal was finished those who were to do the grand wading act of the afternoon got ready to go forth.
They took the bags, and received minute directions from Max concerning the best way for finding the mussels, half buried as they were in mud or sand.
Max also made a rude map on paper, taking in the supposed course of the winding river, as well as the country that came between.
"Here you can see the trail I've marked as the shortest cut to camp," he finished, pointing to a dotted line that seemed to be almost straight. "It runs exactly southwest, you notice, boys."
"But how are we going to always know what _is_ southwest?" asked Bandy-legs, receiving the chart.
"W-w-what d'ye s'pose this is for, s-s-silly?" he demanded, dangling a little nickel-plated object before the eyes of his companion.
"That's right, we're going to have the bully little compass along with us," declared the doubting one, looking considerably relieved; for truth to tell, if Bandy-legs feared any one thing more than another, it was the haunting idea of being lost in a great big wilderness, and meeting a slow and dreadful death through starvation.