Oh, then we're all right," I replied.

He picked it up and studied it carefully by the light of the
lantern.

"No," he said, slowly, "it isn't that. G--g, double
o--gooseberries--that's what it is--a can of gooseberries we got
at Valentine."

"And this is a paper bag of sugar," I said, picking it up.
"No gout to-night!"

I cut open the can and poured in the sugar. We stirred it up
with a stick, and Ollie drank a third of it and I the rest. Then
we crawled under the wagon, covered ourselves with the pony's
saddle-blanket, and went to sleep. But before we did so I said:

"Ollie, at the next town I am going to get you a cook-book,
and we'll be independent of that wretch in the wagon."

"All right," answered Ollie.

VIII: ON THE ANTELOPE FLATS

The next morning the condition of the tempers of the crew of the
Rattletrap was reversed. Jack was feeling better and was quite
amiable, and inclined to regret his bloodthirsty language of the
night before. But Ollie and I, on our diet of gooseberries, had not
prospered, and woke up as cross as Old Blacky. The first thing I
did was to seize the empty gooseberry can and hit the side of the
wagon a half-dozen resounding blows.

"Get up there," I cried, "and 'tend to breakfast! No
pretending you're sick this morning."

"All right!" came Jack's voice, cheerfully. "Certainly. No
need of your getting excited, though. You see, I really wasn't
hungry last night, or I'd have got supper."

"But we were hungry!" answered Ollie. "I don't think I was
ever much hungrier in my life; and then to get nothing but a pint
of gooseberries! I could eat my hat this morning!"

"I'm sorry," said Jack, coming out; "but I can't cook unless
I'm hungry myself. The hunger of others does not inspire me. I
gave you all there was. Your hunger ought to have inspired you to
do something with those gooseberries."

"I'd like to know what sort of a meal you'd have got up with
a can of gooseberries?"

"Why, my dear young nephew," exclaimed Jack, "if I'd been
awakened to action I'd have fricasseed those gooseberries, built
them up into a gastronomical poem; and made a meal of them fit
for a king. A great cook like I am is an artist as much as a
great poet. He--"

"Oh, bother!" I interrupted; "the gooseberries are gone.
There's the grouse Ollie shot yesterday. Do something with that
for breakfast."

Jack disappeared in the wagon, and began to throw grouse
feathers out the