dough! That's for the crust."

Jimmie bounded off a camp stool where the cook had deposited his
crust-dough on a clean white paper and watched Jack line a six-quart
tin pail with the mixture of flour, water and baking powder.

"That ain't thick enough!" he commented. "The crust ought to be an
inch thick."

"You go out and feed the mules!" ordered Jack. "When I want any help
in making a chicken pie I won't call on you!"

"Anyway," Jimmie insisted, "it ought to be an inch thick."

Jack laid the pieces of chicken in the bed of dough--the chickens
having been cooked tender long before Ned was out of his blankets--
and put in salt, pepper, a small piece of butter--out of a glass
can!--and then poured in some of the liquid the chickens had been
stewed in."

"If there should happen to be a drumstick you can't get in," Jimmie
volunteered, "I can eat it for breakfast!"

"So that's why you wanted the crust so thick!" cried Jack. "You
wanted to crowd the chicken out so you could stuff yourself with a
hen for breakfast! Run along and play you'r a baker's wagon
delivering goods on the Bowery!"

"You're the wise little man--not!" Jimmie grunted and set about
cooking ham and eggs for breakfast.