But after a time, with his back and not his face toward Peter, Breault called in the most natural and matter-of-fact voice in the world, "Come on, Peter.

Breakfast is ready!" Peter's jaws dropped in amazement.

And as Breault turned toward him, his thin face a-grin, and continued to invite him in a most companionable way, he forgot his concealment entirely and stood up straight, ready either to fight or fly.
Breault tossed him a dripping slice of bacon which he held in his hand.
It fell within a foot of Peter's nose, and Peter was ravenously hungry.
The delicious odor of it demoralized his senses and his caution.

For a few seconds he resisted, then thrust himself out toward it an inch at a time, made a sudden grab, and swallowed it at one gulp.
Breault laughed outright, and with the first of the sun striking into his face he did not look like an enemy to Peter.
A second slice of bacon followed the first, and then a third--until Breault was frying another mess over the fire.
"That's partial payment for what you did up on the Barren," he was saying inside himself.

"If it hadn't been for you--" He didn't even imagine the rest.