nnington's appetite. They
were deep in autumn, and the winds from the mountains had an edge.
The foliage had turned and it glowed in vivid reds and yellows on the
slopes, although the intense colors were hidden now by the coming of
night.

The wind was cold enough to make the fires feel good to their relaxed
systems, and they spread out their hands to the welcome flames, as they
had often done at home on wintry nights, when children. Beyond the trees
the horses, under guard, were grazing on what was left of the late grass,
but within the wood the men themselves, save those who were preparing
food, were mostly lying down on the dry leaves or their blankets, and
were talking of the things they had done, or the things they were going
to do.

"I wonder what the bill of fare will be tonight," said Pennington,
who was growing hungrier and hungrier.

"I had several engraved menus," said Warner, "but I lost them, and so we
won't be able to order. We'll just have to take what they offer us."

"A month or so later they'll be having fresh sausage and spare ribs in
old Kentucky," said Dick, "and I wish we had 'em here now."

"And a month later than that," said Pennington, "they'll be having a
roasted bull buffalo weighing five thousand pounds for Christmas dinner
in Nebraska."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Warner. "No buffalo ever weighed five thousand
pounds."

Pennington looked at him pityingly.

"You have no romance or poetry after all, George," he said. "Why can't
you let me put on an extra twenty-five hundred or three thousand pounds
for the sake of effect?"

"Besides, you don't roast buffaloes whole and bring them in on a platter!"

"No, we don't, but that's no proof that we can't or won't. Now, what
would you like to have, George?"

"After twelve or fifteen other things, I'd like to finish off with a
whole pumpkin pie, and a few tin cups of cider would go along with it
mighty well. That's the diet to make men, real men, I mean."

"Any way," said Dick, raising a tin cup of hot coffee, "here's to food.
You may sleep without beds, and, in tropical climates, you may go without
clothes, but in whatever part of the world you may be, you must have
food. And it's best when you've ridden hard all day, and, in the cool of
an October evening, to sit down by a roaring fire in the woods with the
dry leaves beneath you, and the clear sky above you."

"Hear! hear!" said Warner. "Who's dithyrambic now? But you're right,