Almost as if he had heard his name spoken, Brad thrust his touseled dark head out the cabin doorway. Thirteen and large for his age, the Den Chief wore the uniform of a Scout.
“Top o’ the morning,” he chirped. “Did I hear my name?”
“The little boss was just saying you’re supposed to help get breakfast,” Chips informed him.
“Chips, I’m not trying to boss anyone,” Dan said, with an effort, holding his temper in check. “Every fellow is supposed to do his share. That’s all.”
“Take it easy, lads,” said Brad in his quiet, friendly voice. “This rotten weather has us all on edge. Chips and I will tackle that breakfast in nothing flat. Just give me a chance to wash up.”
The threatened disagreement was brushed away as of no consequence.
With a warm feeling of gratitude to Brad, Dan went into the cabin to make up his bed. Good old Brad! Even tempered and with an efficient way of getting things done, one always could depend on him to iron out friction.
Inside the cabin, the other Cubs were scrambling into their long blue trousers and jerseys. But the usual clamor of excited voices was lacking. Even Red, who often kept the Cubs in high spirits with his wise cracks, seemed subdued.
“What are we doin’ today?” he asked plaintively. “Another session of whittling Indian totem poles?”
“Mr. Hatfield has something in mind,” Dan informed the Cubs. “He may tell us at breakfast.”
Following Dan’s example, the Den members folded blankets which could not be aired outside, and straightened the cabin. By the time Midge and Mack brought water from the house, a well-cooked breakfast was ready.
As they squatted around the fire eating their fill of bacon and eggs, Mr. Hatfield outlined the morning plans.
“It won’t take long to clean up the dishes,” he remarked. “Then what say to a boat jaunt across the river?”
“Not to the village again?” protested Chips. “We have more supplies now than we’ll need until we leave here.”
“I thought we might hike to Paul Silverton’s pheasant farm.”
“Not the wealthy sportsman?” demanded Mack Tibbets, all interest.
“That’s right. He raises unusual imported birds as a hobby. Of course, it will be pretty wet underfoot, and if any of you would rather stay here or go home—”
“Who wants to stay?” Red demanded. “We’ve been cooped up long enough. Let’s get those dishes washed pronto!”