sure and clean them thoroughly."

He dodged just in time to avoid a fish head that Dick threw at him. It
whizzed by his ear, and his quick duck detracted somewhat from his
dignity.

"The growing insolence of the lower classes," he muttered, regaining his
equilibrium. "You're fired," he roared, glaring at Dick.

"All right," said Dick, throwing down his knife.

"No, no," corrected Tom hurriedly, "not till after dinner."

Before long the fish were sputtering merrily over the fire and the
appetizing smell was full of promise. It even induced Tom to abandon his
leisurely attitude and "rustle" the good things out of the basket. They
made a royal meal and feasted so full and long that, when at last old
Nature simply balked at more, they had no desire to do anything but lie
back lazily and revel in the sheer delight of living.

"If I've an enemy on earth, I forgive him," sighed Dick blissfully.

"Old Walt Whitman's my favorite poet," said Tom. "Isn't he the fellow
that tells you to 'loaf and invite your soul'?"

"Soul," grunted Bert disdainfully. "You haven't any soul. Just now you're
all body."

"Always pickin' on me," groaned Tom resignedly.