The one who turned the spit had his back to the Cubs. He was wrapped deeply in a heavy coat many sizes too large for his lean frame. Beside him lay a rifle.
But even though the Cubs could not see the lad’s face, they recognized him instantly. The one who sat so contentedly by his fire, gazing off into space, was Jack Phillips.
Mr. Hatfield did not fail to note the rifle, which he knew had been taken from Mrs. Jones’ home. Undoubtedly it was loaded, he reasoned. If Jack were disposed to make trouble, he easily could do so.
Saying nothing to the Cubs of his misgivings, the Cub leader stepped boldly into the clearing.
Hearing the crackle of a stick, Jack whirled around.
Instinctively, he reached for the rifle. Then, recognizing Mr. Hatfield, he merely allowed his hand to rest on the butt. His attitude however, was wary.
“How are you, Jack?” the Cub leader greeted him. “A nice little camp you have here. Did you shoot the rabbit yourself?”
“Who else?” Jack retorted a trifle defiantly.
“You did a good job of cleaning it too,” the Cub leader praised him. “I can see you’re handy and know how to get along.”
Jack made no reply. Guardedly he eyed the Cubs, who gradually had circled in around the camp fire.
“No biscuits?” demanded Red, scanning every inch of the camp.
“I never learned how to bake ’em,” Jack admitted, relaxing a bit. “You have to have an oven for that.”
“A reflector oven isn’t hard to make,” Mr. Hatfield said. “Any of the Cubs could teach you.”
“They could?” Jack gazed at the boys with new respect. “I’d sure like to learn.”
“You come with us on our next hike, and we’ll show you,” Mr. Hatfield promised.
“That makes no difference. Glad to have you.” Jack’s face lighted up, and then the old look of frustration returned.
“Thanks,” he said, “but I can’t make it. The Widow wouldn’t let me go. She keeps me chop, chop, chopping wood night and day.”
“You seem to be enjoying yourself now,” Brad remarked significantly.
Jack stirred the coals and replied: “Oh, I ran off. She’ll switch me when I get back. It only tickles though.”
Mr. Hatfield squatted by the fire and said in a friendly way: “How are things working out, Jack? You don’t much like it at the Widow’s place?”
“Oh, she’s okay, I guess,” the boy admitted grudgingly.