"I guess we've
got coffee for a few times yet, and I smuggled a can of Boston baked
beans along when Frank wasn't looking, knowing that father used to be
right fond of 'em."
"Coffee! Beans! Why, you fairly take my breath away!" exclaimed the one
who for so many months had been deprived of all the comforts of
civilization and forced to sustain his life in the most primitive
manner.
When supper was cooking the professor made some excuse to wander
off. Frank knew, though, what ailed him.
"It's the aroma of that blessed coffee, that's what," he said to Andy,
who had looked a little troubled at this action on the part of his
father. "It's been so long since he's smelled it that it just makes him
wild. I know, because I had a little experience that way myself once,
only it was two weeks I had to go without when we were camping and not
many months. When supper's ready he'll come with a rush, mark me, Andy."
And he proved to be a true prophet, for no sooner had Andy lifted up his
voice to call that the meal was ready than the professor broke through
the bushes and hastened to take his place.
Frank lost not a second in filling a tin cup of the amber liquid and
handing it to the late prisoner of the valley.
He tasted and then nodded his head.
"Nectar for the gods, my boys!" he declared. "One never knows how
little things like this go to make up a portion of one's life until a
cruel fate has deprived him of them all.
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