The Motor Maids at Sunrise Camp Part 13

After a brief silence, broken only by the tinkle of spoons against saucers, the campers around the table glanced at each other guiltily.

Except for the portions reserved for the two cooks, there was not a crumb of piddling left.

"Better hide the plates and cover the dish," said the doctor in a conspirator's whisper. "It's enough to provoke them into a mutiny. Time enough to break the news after they have eaten their mock turtle."

"Duck," choked Percy.

But the Gypsy cooks had noticed nothing. They were too absorbed with straining the beans and the onions now cooked to shreds, from the adamantine potatoes. The cooked vegetables they arranged in the bottom of a large meat platter as a becoming bed for the mock duck which Billie, with mingled feelings of fear and triumph, now prepared to loose from his fastenings with a long fork and the historic carving knife. But Mock Duck to the end was a rogue and a trickster. The poor little cook had just loosened him from the spit and was holding him precariously on the p.r.o.ng of a fork, when he gave a malicious leap into the air and plunged into the very centre of the hot embers. Instantly a circle of flames rose high about him and the air was charged with the fumes of burning flesh.

"Oh, oh!" shrieked Billie. "Help! Help!"

They did what they could to save the remnants of Mock Duck. Ben singed his eyebrows in an effort to spear him on a fork and raise him from his fiery bed. They were all very quick but the flames were quicker, and when at last Mock Duck was lifted from the embers his form was no longer recognizable and the surface of his outer covering was burned to a cinder.

The two little Gypsy cooks wept with disappointment. They had worked so hard and were so hot and tired and hungry.

Their friends were consumed with pity.

"There, there," cried Dr. Hume, too tender hearted to look upon tears without being moved. "Don't cry, little cooks. Look at all this nice gravy and these delicious vegetables."

"Why, my dearest children, you mustn't mind," exclaimed Miss Campbell.

"See what a beautiful mixture we can have. Pour the gravy right into the platter with the beans and onions. We'll eat it on bread."

How callous do the most fastidious become after a few weeks in camp!

"Come, come, there's no time to be lost," exclaimed the starving Percy.

But the two disappointed cooks had nothing to say. They choked back their tears and fell to with an appet.i.te on beans and onions ingloriously mixed with bread and gravy. And as a final delicacy, the campers, who had commenced with dessert and salad, finished off with two very delicious mealy potatoes apiece.

"If we stayed in this wilderness long, we'd revert to savages," Miss Campbell remarked, stirring a large cup of black coffee. "But on the whole, I think I am enjoying the reversion and my appet.i.te is getting better every day."

"If I were starving in the wilderness and somebody offered me Mock Duck, I'd refuse it," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Billie irrelevantly, for n.o.body had mentioned mock duck for a long time.

THE BALLAD OF MOCK DUCK.

(Poem by Percy.)

There was a haughty animal, Lived in a meadow fine; A domesticated lady Of the genus called bovine.

Like many other females, Beast or human or divine, This domesticated lady Of the family of kine

Gazed with rapture at her features, As reflected in a brook, When with unblus.h.i.+ng ecstasy Each morn she took a look.

As she smiled at her reflection In the mirror of the stream, She indulged in gentle rev'ries Of complacency supreme.

"Besides my gift of beauty And my cultivated mind, I have other choice attractions Of a very varied kind.

"My roasts and steaks are luscious, On my hash all have relied, My youthful veal's delicious, And my milk is certified."

On these pleasing meditations Broke a mother with her brood, Sailing o'er that calm reflection In a most ungracious mood.

"You may be steaks and roast beef And hash of quality, But you stoop to imitations Of poor humble little me.

"You may be a benefactor, But I'll just remind you, ma'am, That in one small particular You are a blooming sham.

"Don't let your sweet milk curdle And don't let it sour your luck, If I make so bold to mention That imposture called 'Mock Duck'!"

So this web-footed lady, With a malice quite feline, Disturbed the calm reflections Of that innocent bovine.

CHAPTER IX.

A LESSON BY THE WAYSIDE.

Promptly at nine o'clock Sat.u.r.day morning the "Comet" might have been seen crawling down the side of the mountain with Billie at the wheel.

Dr. Hume sat beside her and Elinor and Ben were in the back seat. It was with something of a holiday feeling that they went forth to meet Alberdina, the new maid, whose presence was becoming a pressing necessity.

"I don't mind the cooking a bit, Doctor," Billie was saying. "Especially with Nancy, although I suppose I am really her a.s.sistant. She makes things exciting enough. I think she's a kind of culinary speculator and takes a lot of chances, but she's awfully lucky. She takes all sorts of rag-tag ends of things, chops them into bits and turns out what she calls _ragouts_."

"They're mighty good," said the doctor. "Experimenting cooks generally have a sub-conscious instinct that carries them along when they seem to be going blindly. But it's difficult to work with them. They are always dictatorial and inclined to treat the a.s.sistant as a scullery maid."

Billie groaned.

"I hope Alberdina, strong and fearless, will relieve us of that awful scullery work. I have a feeling it would be a reflection on my character and on the Campbell family if I didn't leave every pan bright and s.h.i.+ning, but oh, dear, it's work! I think if I had to keep it up I should cook everything together, vegetables and meat, in one big kettle full of boiling water."

"That wouldn't be such a bad mess," laughed the doctor. "The vegetable and meat juices would make a rich broth and you could serve soup, meat and vegetables all in one plate. Think of the saving of that."

"As Cousin Helen said, it wouldn't take campers long to revert to savagery," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Billie. "We are already as brown as Indians. We keep our sleeves rolled up and our collars turned in and wear creepers instead of shoes, and always khaki skirts, and never dress for supper.

Even Cousin Helen has slipped back a peg--"

"It's the only possible way to enjoy camping," broke in the doctor. "But you would never get to be an all the way savage. Look at that remarkable young woman, Miss Phoebe, who has never had anything else in all her life,--she is far from being a savage."

"Indeed she is," said Billie. "She has never been to school in her life, but she knows a great deal more about some things than I do--astronomy, for instance, and English history."

"There is more than that," put in Elinor, leaning over to join in the conversation. "Phoebe has learned something else that keeps her from ever being ill or tired or unhappy. I asked her what it was and she said it was a secret."

"Speaking of angels," remarked Ben, "there is Phoebe in front of us now, carrying a basket. I suppose she is going to the Antler's Inn to sell some of her father's work."

Far ahead of them, swinging along the dusty road, was Phoebe. Her tall, slender figure swayed gracefully with the movement of the walk, but her shoulders did not bend under the burden of the large basket. A hot, dry wind blew her skirts about her and flapped the brim of her jimmie hat.

Since the night at Sunrise Camp, Phoebe had never gone barefooted again, and she now wore a pair of canvas creepers that gave a spring to her step as she hurried along.

Keeping time to the rhythm of her steps, Phoebe chanted softly in a rich, clear voice:

"'The Lord is my shepherd: I shall not want.

"'He maketh me to lie down in the green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.'"