"Yes, we have," Prescott corrected. "I saw to that last night.
You fellows jump in and clean these fish, fast, while I get out
the corn meal and put a pan on the fire."

These boys knew much more about cooking than falls to most boys
in their teens. Frequent camping since their good old days in
Central Grammar School had made them able to cook like veteran
woodsmen.

Within two minutes, fat was sputtering in a hot pan, and Dick
was shaking corn meal onto a plate.

"Bring 'em up!" he ordered. "We'll start this thing going."

Twenty minutes later, using two pans, all the bull-heads had been
cooked, and now lay on platters in the oven of the stove.

"Three apiece, and one left over," Greg discovered. "Who gets
the odd one?"

"Shame on you!" muttered Reade. "The horse gets the odd one,
of course."

"A horse won't eat fish," Holmes retorted.

"Didn't you ever see a horse eat fish?" Tom challenged.

"I never did."

"Well, I don't know that I ever did, either," Reade admitted.