Tom Slade at Bear Mountain by Percy Keese Fitzhugh

Tom and Brent had a late supper in the cabin that night. After the adventures of the day the little primitive abode, nestling in the surrounding wildness, seemed like heaven indeed. The supper, consisting of baked beans and bacon and fried potatoes and crumbling but flavory rusks, was prepared by Tom's own skilful hand.

Brent peeled the potatoes for frying, and he looked funny enough sitting facing the little stove with his long legs held up by another old rickety chair, his feet so close to the increasing blaze that one might have supposed they were going to have fried leather for supper. "I like the odor of burning shoes," he said; "it's the very sole of camping."