MRS. CRANE remained very near her sleeping charge all that day. She didn't see, she said, how anybody could survive the dreadful dose that Dave had poured down the unconscious lad's throat.
At four that afternoon one of Dave's predictions came true. Great beads of perspiration broke out on the boy's forehead; and soon the voluminous nightgown in which Mrs. Crane had arrayed the patient was wet through, for he was indeed "sweating like a horse."
Remembering Dave's advice concerning broth, yet decidedly fearful of following advice from so doubtful a source, the anxious nurse searched her cupboard for the little jar of beef extract that had been ordered for Bettie (by this time Bettie was clamoring for—and getting—more substantial food) and made a small bowlful of strong bouillon. But first, careful Mrs. Crane wrapped her patient in a warm blanket.
When she returned with the broth, intending to force it by spoonfuls into the lad's mouth, she realised that a great change had taken place in her patient. The fever flush was gone from his cheeks, leaving him pale and clammy; but now, for the first time since his arrival in Pete's Patch his eyes were open. They were big and very, very blue.
"Well," greeted Mrs. Crane, "this is something like! Awake, are you? Don't be frightened, poor lamb—you're as safe here as if you were in your own bed. Open your mouth, there's a good boy. It's some time since you've had a Christian meal."
After the first few spoonfuls, the boy's eyes closed wearily; but he still opened his mouth obediently, just like a young robin, his pleased nurse said afterwards.
"That's all," announced Mrs. Crane, giving him the last spoonful. "Now go to sleep if you want to."
Apparently he did want to, for that is what he did. Mrs. Crane stole softly from the tent.
"Girls," said she, to the little group in the shade of the biggest tree, "I want you to be very quiet whenever you come near the tents—tell the others when they come back. I believe that boy has taken a change for the better—he's lost his fever and he's sleeping like a baby."
"Was it Dave's awful medicine?" queried Bettie.
"I don't know," returned Mrs. Crane. "Your bottle probably helped. I don't suppose we'll ever know just what effect Dave's potion had; but something has certainly brought about a change in that poor child. Anyway, remember not to make a noise near my tent."
"My!" giggled Marjory, when Mrs. Crane had returned to her charge, "she never even looked toward the beach. I was so afraid she'd notice the smoke from that fire and ask what Jean and Mabel were doing."
"So was I," said Henrietta, who was endeavoring to weave a basket from some long, fragrant grass that she had discovered in a marsh near the river, "but she doesn't think of anything but that boy."
"What's Mr. Black doing all this time?" asked Bettie, who was lying at full length on the ground with her head in Marjory's lap.
"Fishing with his two and a half worms," replied Henrietta.
"There he comes now," said Marjory, "but what in the world ails him?"
No wonder she asked, for stout Mr. Black, hatless and coatless, his thick, iron-gray hair standing upright, his oft-mended suspenders broken once more and dangling from his waist, was dashing madly about the further end of the clearing. Now with arms aloft, now with fingers gripping the sod, this usually sedate and dignified gentleman was behaving in a most remarkable manner.
"Goodness!" gasped Henrietta. "He must be doing an Indian war-dance!"
"He's pounding the ground with his hat," said Marjory.
"Now he's trying to fly—mercy! He's tripped right over a stump!" exclaimed Henrietta. "Let's go and see what he's doing."
Just then Jean and Mabel clambered up the bank from the beach. On seeing the others fleeing hurriedly in Mr. Black's direction, they, too, scurried after.
"He got away," panted Mr. Black, ruefully, as he picked himself up from the grass plot.
"What?" inquired Marjory, "a squirrel? a rabbit? a beaver?"
"No," returned Mr. Black, rather sheepishly, wiping his perspiring brow, "a grasshopper. But I must have that beast. Girls, I'll give you a dollar apiece for every grasshopper you can catch within the next ten minutes. You see, I accidentally caught one—the thing was down my neck—put it on my hook, and in two seconds it was snatched off by the biggest trout I've seen in six years! Yes, siree! He was a yard long! I'd pay two dollars for another grasshopper this minute; for I can't catch the pesky things."
"Easy money," laughed Henrietta. "Come on, girls. Let's see who'll get the two dollars."
In another moment all five were hurling themselves recklessly about the sunny clearing, wherever a grasshopper jumped. To an unenlightened observer, it must have seemed as if they, too, were doing an Indian war-dance; certainly they alarmed the grasshoppers.
"Oh," gasped Bettie, after five minutes of this strenuous exercise, "I can't try any longer—my poor old legs are all gone."
So tired Bettie nestled comfortably against Mr. Black, who, with his broad back against a stump, was resting as peacefully as the thought of that big, uncaught trout would permit. But the other four still chased grasshoppers.
Suddenly, a big, bewildered insect hopped right into Bettie's lap; and, in a moment, Bettie's quick, slender fingers had closed over as fine a grasshopper as fisherman would wish to see.
"I've got him—I've got him!" she shrieked. "He's right in my hand."
Mr. Black placed the captive in his pocket match-safe. Then gravely extracting a two-dollar bill from his trousers pocket, he dropped it in Bettie's lap.
"Oh, no," breathed Bettie. "Not when you're so good to me—I'd catch a million grasshoppers for you for nothing, if I only could."
"If you don't keep it," declared Mr. Black, closing her fingers over the bill, "I'll let that precious insect fly away."
"Well," sighed Bettie, stuffing the money down her neck, "I'll sit here with my mouth open and let grasshoppers fly in until I catch a truly two dollars' worth."
"Well," laughed Mr. Black, rising with difficulty, "bring all you catch down that left-hand trail to the second bend in the river—that's where I saw that whale."
But there was no need of a second grasshopper; for before another was captured, Mr. Black, beaming with pleasure, rushed to the clearing to display his trout. Although the big fish lacked almost two feet of being a yard long, he was a fine specimen.
"And Bettie's grasshopper," said Mr. Black, readjusting it on his hook, "is still as good as new, so I'm going back for another fish—with one more, plus the three I caught this morning, we'll have enough for supper."
"My goodness!" gasped Jean. "Our surprise—nobody's watching the fire!"
With one accord, the five cooks rushed to the beach.
"The fire's out," said Jean. "We'll have to build it again."
When all the rest of the supper was on the table, including Mr. Black's satisfactory catch of trout, nicely fried by Jean, Marjory slipped quietly away to extract the surprise from the oven. She was not entirely satisfied with its appearance; but, at any rate, the dish was good and hot. She succeeded in getting it safely up the sand bank and into the octagonal tent, where she placed it triumphantly beside the trout.
"Why!" exclaimed Mrs. Crane, whose patient was still sleeping, "what have we here?"
"A surprise," beamed Mabel.
"Boston baked beans," explained Bettie.
"Now, that," said Mr. Black, "is a real treat. There's nothing better than beans for camp fare."
But when the beans were served they rattled, as they touched the plates, like rain on a tin roof. Instead of being smooth and nicely filled out, each bean was shriveled and as hard as a pebble.
"Dear me," mourned Bettie, who had taken the first mouthful, "those are dreadful beans—I can't bite them."
"But," said puzzled Jean, "they cooked for hours."
"Did you soak them first?" asked Mrs. Crane.
"No," replied Jean.
"Didn't you boil them?"
"No, we didn't do that, either. Just baked 'em."
"Dear, dear," laughed Mrs. Crane. "No wonder they're hard. You should have soaked them all night, boiled them for an hour, and then baked them. And I think, my dears, that you forgot the pork, the molasses, and the salt—beans need a great deal of salt. But it was nice and thoughtful of you good little girls to go to all that trouble."
"We wanted it to be a lovely surprise," mourned Mabel.
"Well," teased Mr. Black, "it's certainly more of a surprise than you meant it to be, therefore more of a success, because we are all surprised."
"Cheer up," said Mrs. Crane, touched by the downcast countenances of the disappointed cooks. "We'll feed the surprise to the squirrels. After supper—you see there's plenty this time without the surprise—we'll put some more beans to soak; and to-morrow we'll cook them the other way. Anyway, I'm very glad you thought of cooking those beans—I'd forgotten that we had them."
At this the seven gloomy faces brightened. And the beans were not wasted; for the kind squirrels carried away every one.