Anticipating rain, the Cubs, before retiring, had stored a good supply of birch bark, pine needles and dry wood in a natural ravine shelter twenty yards from the cabin.
Dan now helped Mr. Hatfield scrape the ground bare of soggy leaves. Kindling the fire carefully, the Cub leader soon had a cheerful blaze going which began to radiate heat. Dan’s spirits rose.
“Say, the rain is quitting!” he said jubilantly. “And here comes Midge’s father!”
Burton Holloway, a lean man of athletic build, rapidly descended the stone steps from the house.
“You’re all invited to our place for breakfast,” he announced. “Have a bad night of it?”
“No, we were snug and warm in the cabin,” Mr. Hatfield replied. “As for breakfast, I don’t think we should impose on Mrs. Holloway. We’ll make out.”
“Suit yourselves,” the Den Dad smiled. “Anyway, tell the Cubs to come to the house for anything they need.”
By the time the camp fire had burned down to cherry red coals, the Cubs began to straggle from the cabin. Chips Davis, a tall stripling for his eleven years, was first to thrust his seal-like head out into the cold mist.
“Another lousy day,” he bemoaned. “Four of ’em in a row. Great!”
“Pipe down and get busy,” Dan growled. “A Cub is supposed to be game.”
“Sure, that’s what it says in the manual. But the wise guy who wrote that book was sitting at his typewriter in a nice cozy room with steam heat and—”
“Pipe down, I say!” Dan repeated. “Or if you can’t take it, there’s a nice hot breakfast waiting for you up at the house.”
Chips glared at Dan, and then suddenly relaxed.
Dan let the matter ride. “If you’re sticking with the gang, it’s your turn to help cook breakfast,” he reminded him.
“Yes, Mr. Denner! Waffles, creamed chicken and fresh strawberries coming right up.”
Chips bowed low, a mocking grin overspreading his freckled face. Only the mischief in his blue eyes took the edge from his words.
Now Chips never had entirely accustomed himself to Dan’s election as official denner of the Cubs. Always he had seemed to resent those two gold stripes on the younger boy’s left sleeve. Seldom did he miss a chance to rub it in if ever Dan ventured a suggestion.
“Where’s Brad?” he asked abruptly. “He’s supposed to help too.”