"It's noon now." "We'll eat in another hour, I guess, if that suits the crowd," replied Dick.
"I'm ready to eat right now," coaxed Dutcher.
"But you don't belong to the crowd," retorted Dave Darrin grimly.
"Unless you want to put up with bread you'll have to wait until the crowd is ready." "Potatoes will be the first thing ready for dinner, Hen," observed Prescott mildly.

"As you're not doing anything outdoors, you might get busy peeling a big pan of potatoes." "See here," flared Dutcher, "I told you before that I'm no servant, and----" But Dick had risen, for the clock informed him that it was time to relieve the shift out in the deep snow.
"Suit yourself, Hen," replied Prescott.

"If you don't peel the potatoes, and some one else has to do it, then you won't eat any hot dinner to-day.

That's flat." "Isn't Dick Prescott just a mean bully ?" growled Hen to himself, as the "relief" stepped outdoors to resume work.
"See that Hen keeps busy peeling and washing potatoes," Dick advised Greg in passing.
Then the three rested shovelers took up the task.

The path was now approaching the cook shack at the rear of the cabin.
"Queer, isn't it," inquired Dave, "that we don't see a blessed thing of Mr.Fits to-day, and that there's no smoke going up his chimney." "Perhaps he has left these parts," suggested Tom, rather hopefully.
"How could he ?" Dave wanted to know.
"Maybe he went last night." "I doubt if he could get away, even last night, at the hour when we turned him adrift," Darrin contended.