THE “WHITECAP”
AGAIN Marjorie rapped on the table with her iron spoon.
“As none of you seems to offer any suggestions,” she went on, as if she
had not been interrupted at all, “I will lay down the law. Hester,
you’re Stoker. The coal and wood has come. Now see if you can make a
fire that shall be worthy of one whom England expects this day to do her
duty!”
“Aye, aye!” said Hester, bringing her hand to her temple, palm forward,
with the quick, jerky salute of a British marine.
“Helen, you and Jessie might set the table; but don’t both of you get to
singing at once, for you’ll drive us distracted. Millicent, what are
_you_ good for, anyway?”
Millicent was putting away the groceries that were piled on the table in
the outer kitchen, or buttery, as Hester called it, and she replied:
“Oh, I would ornament any calling; but when I see these candles and
kerosene it makes me just long to fill the lamps and candlesticks,
’cause it’s going to get dark pretty soon.”
“You’re a wise virgin,” said Betty, “and you shall be our honored
Lamplighter. I suppose I must peel these potatoes. How many, Duchess?”
“Two apiece,” replied Marjorie. “We’ll have them mashed, and the onions
fried, and the steak broiled, and I’ll make coffee, and that’s all we’ll
have cooked for supper. You can hunt up some dessert out of the things
that came from the grocer’s.”
Many hands make light work, and in half an hour everything was about
ready. The table was laid, and wonderfully pretty it looked, too; for
under Jessie’s supervision it had blossomed out into dainty doilies, and
bits of shining glass and silver; and in the center was a low basket of
goldenrod.
Not finding a satisfactory dessert in the cupboard, Helen had run over
to the grocer’s herself, and returned triumphantly with a box of candied
ginger, an Edam cheese, and a tin box of biscuits. These and the
coffee-cups she arranged on a side-table, and surveyed the result with a
very pardonable pride.
Millicent had filled and lighted the large swinging-lamp over the table,
and candles twinkled from a pair of old-fashioned candelabra which
Jessie had discovered in the attic. In the kitchen, too, all was in
readiness.
Betty had boiled and mashed the potatoes until Millicent declared they
looked like cotton batting. Marjorie had broiled the steak to the
proverbial turn, fried the onions to an odoriferous brown, and made a
potful of her celebrated coffee; and now, flushed with success and
Hester’s fire, she sat on the edge of the kitchen table, her iron spoon
still in her hand, like a scepter.
“Whe-e-w!” said Helen, coming out. “You must be cooking comparisons out
here, they’re so odorous.”
“In onion is strength,” replied Betty.
“Why don’t you take something for that punning habit, Betty? Really,
it’s getting worse, I think. Oh, I wish Nan and the Matron would come! I
_am_ so starved.”
And in a few minutes they did come—tired and chilled with their long
walk, and without the much-desired Irish lady.
“Where’s your captive?”
“Couldn’t you catch her?”
“Is she coming?”
“Yes,” said Marguerite, “it’s all right. Don’t all talk at once; let me
tell you. She can’t come until to-morrow, but she’ll be here
early—before breakfast.”
“Then we’ve got to wash the dishes to-night, haven’t we?” groaned
Jessie.
“Never mind, my pretty Scullery-maid,” said Betty; “you needn’t do it:
you can put them away with neatness and despatch.” And Jessie beamed
again.
“Can you guess what we’re going to have for supper?” said Marjorie.
“Guess!” said Nan. “I should think we could! Why, we met the
announcement three blocks up the street, and it led us all the way home,
like the Israelites’ pillar of fire. Is supper ready?”
“Yes,” chimed a chorus; and in less time than it takes to tell it the
feast was on the table.
“You sit at the head, Duchess,” said Betty, “and I’ll sit at the foot
and carve, for none of the rest of you know how. The fair Scullery-maid
can sit at my right hand in case I need her assistance, Nan and Daisy
next, then Millicent at Marjorie’s right, and then Helen and Hester; and
there you are!”
There they were indeed, and a merrier meal was never eaten by the Blue
Ribbon Cooking Club.
The prosaic onions were pronounced better than any complicated French
concoction, and were portioned out with exact fairness by the
conscientious Betty.
Nan and Marguerite, having done nothing toward the preparations, offered
their services as waitresses, and, like well-trained club members, they
removed one course and served the other in the most approved fashion.
Then Marjorie poured coffee, and the red-coated cheese was placed before
Betty, who thoroughly enjoyed “scooping,” and there was much laughter
and merry talk. And they all complimented each other and congratulated
each other, and they feasted and jested, and laughed and chaffed; and as
they all talked at once, each made jokes that never were heard, and told
stories that never were listened to, and asked questions that never were
answered. And Timmy Loo thought it was all a great entertainment for his
special benefit; and he barked his funniest barks, and ran round the
table like mad, and paused in front of each one, standing up and putting
out his paw in his very best beggarly manner, receiving always a bit of
ginger or biscuit on his solicitous little nose. Until finally Marjorie
said. “Now, sisters, if there’s any redding up to be done, ’twere well
’twere done quickly. I don’t mind washing the dishes, and if we all fly
round we’ll have things in order in no time.”
They did fly round, and in very little more than no time things were in
order, and the eight girls, feeling very proud of their tidy kitchen,
gathered round Hester’s wood fire in the Grotto, as Millicent persisted
in calling the parlor.
And then Uncle Ned and Aunt Molly came over to call, and were nearly
talked to death by the enthusiastic eight, who were delighted to have
some one to “tell things to.”
The much-amused guests were escorted out to the kitchen to see how
beautifully the young housekeepers had “redded up,” and then they were
invited to partake of crackers and cheese in the dining-room; and such a
hospitable spirit pervaded the hostesses that they refreshed themselves
also, until the crackers were all gone and the cheese required deep-sea
scooping.
“Well, you certainly seem a capable crowd,” said Aunt Molly, as she was
taking leave. “Are you sure you won’t be afraid to-night?”
“Of course they won’t,” said Uncle Ned, in tones that would have
inspired confidence in a lame rabbit. “What is there to be afraid of?
Long Beach is the safest old place in the world. But, my lambs, if you
want us at any hour of the day or night, you’ve only to push this bell
in the hall, which communicates with our bell, and we’ll fly over.”
“Now,” said Matron Marguerite, as they returned to the Grotto, “I am
going to make up my accounts. I have all the bills that came in to-day,
and I have five dollars apiece from each one of you for the first week,
though I’m afraid it won’t be enough, and Helen forgot to give me hers
anyway, and Betty gave hers to me and then borrowed it back again; and I
haven’t paid my own yet either, but I paid out eighty cents for our
stage-fares, and twenty-five cents expressage,—no, fifty,—and fourteen
cents for two quarts of milk. You see, I didn’t know we were going to
have bills, and I almost wish we hadn’t. Oh, yes, and I owe Marjorie
thirty-six cents that she paid to the butter-and-egg lady—I mean the
club owes it. But I guess I can straighten it all out.”
“You ought to have one of those cash-register things,” said Millicent.
“You just play on it with your fingers, and it rings a bell and counts
your money for you.”
“I wish I had one,” said Marguerite, who was beginning to be
arithmetically bewildered. “But I’ll be all right if you girls will let
me alone.”
“We will, we will,” said Nan. “Just remember, Daisy, that two and two
make four, and then go ahead. Now _I_’m going to begin our Journal. I
brought a grand and elegant new blank-book for the purpose. We must
write something in it every day, and we’ll keep it here on the table
where anyone can write a page when she feels disposed. What shall we
call it? What’s the name of this cottage, Marjorie?”
“Oh, father calls it Fair View, but I don’t think that’s much of a name.
Let’s christen it for ourselves.”
“Call it Liberty Hall,” said Jessie, “because we’re going to do just as
we like all the time we’re here.”
“Too hackneyed,” returned Betty. “Let’s call it Hilarity Hall, because
we’re going to have lots of fun here.”
So Hilarity Hall it was, and Nan printed it in big letters on the
fly-leaf of her book. Then she began to scribble, and the others leaned
over her shoulder and knelt at her side, and helped and suggested and
amended, until the first instalment of the Journal stood thus, and Nan
read it aloud, amid a fire of running comment:
“A SEPTEMBER SESSION OF THE BLUE RIBBON COOKING CLUB
“HILARITY HALL, BLUE BEACH,
September 21.
“The entire club left Middleton on the twelve-ten train. The
Wandering Minstrel [that’s you, Helen] and the Poet [that’s me],
musing on higher things, strayed into the smoking-car, from
which they were summarily ejected by the brakeman. Except for an
ill-behaved cuckoo, who gave his unsolicited and also incorrect
opinion as to the time of day, the club behaved itself with
dignity and decorum.
“Here, you see, it drops into verse:
“On reaching Long Beach these maids demure
In haste the local stage secure;
And all the gaping rustics gaze
With open mouth and much amaze
At all the boxes, trunks, and wheels,
And Timmy Loo’s pugnacious squeals.
But all these curious stares and looks
Can’t disconcert the calm-eyed cooks.
Quickly the festive stage they fill,
And amble slowly up the hill.
[Poetic license—no hill!]
And so at last with anxious feet
They gain their much-desired retreat.
“Now we come to the account of the ‘Truly Awful Encounter with the
Greedy Grocer.’
“If it isn’t all quite true, you must remember that we poets must often
sacrifice veracity to the demands of poetic diction.”
This was agreed to, and Nan read on:
“Ere the cooks had time for napping,
Suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping,
Rapping at the kitchen door.
“Then the Chief, up quickly getting,
All her pots and pans upsetting,
All her dignity forgetting,
Sprang across the kitchen floor
(With one leap she cleared the floor);
“Oped the door with perturbation,
And observed with indignation
That a Man—oh, desecration!—
Stood outside the kitchen door.
“Then the cooks drew close and closer,
And the Chief said sternly, ‘Go, sir!’
But he murmured, ‘I’m the grocer,
Grocer from the neighboring store’
(Red-haired grocer from the store).
“‘For I am the groceryman—
Garrulous groceryman—
Red-headed, ready, and spry;
A versatile groceryman,
Close-fisted groceryman,
Silver-tongued groceryman, I.’
“So the cooks made out their order,
Made a long and costly order;
And the grocer’s heart was gladdened,
And he left them, smiling brightly.
Then the Matron, slow departing,
And the Poet going with her,
Said, ‘We go to seek a Lady,
Strong and willing Irish Lady,
Who will wash our dinner-dishes.’
“So, the other cooks agreeing,
These two maidens went to Northward,
Seeking for the Irish Lady
Who would wash the dinner-dishes.
And the hopes of all went with them.
“Then the others went exploring,
In the cellar went exploring;
Found there—onions! Many onions!
Onions strong of mighty flavor!
Quickly then they grasped the basket,
Grasped that basket full of onions,
Hurried with them to the kitchen,
Chopped them, cooked them with precaution;
Then the house from roof to cellar
Told a mighty tale of onions!
On their groaning board they placed them,
And with greediness devoured them.
When the Matron and the Poet,
Weary and belated travelers,
Turned the corner near the cottage,
They were greeted by the odor,
And their hungry hearts were gladdened.
Then they all sat down to supper.
“Oh, who could describe all the laughter and chatter,
As quickly they cleared every dish and each platter?—
Each feeling they’d now reached the height of their wishes,
Excepting that some one must wash up the dishes.
“There, that’s as far as I’ve written.”
“Give it to me,” said Millicent; “I’m no poet, but I’ll write the
kitchen chronicles.”
She scribbled away, reading aloud as she wrote—
“The dish-washing was exciting in the extreme. The Duchess,
being overcome at the sight of so much work, was laid upon the
buttery shelf. The Duchess’s apron fell on the Peeler, who, with
the valuable assistance of the Stoker, smashed three plates and
a cup. The Poet, not seeing the Matron, fell over her while
crossing the kitchen, which made the Matron cross (the
threshold). The Duchess (very naturally) slipped off the buttery
shelf, and the Wandering Minstrel and Scullery-maid, sneaking
away from the glorious company of dish-washers, made night
hideous with their wild howlings in the Grotto (banjo
accompaniment).”
“Now, Lamplighter, give it to me. As Matron I am the one to write up the
account of our social functions”; and Marguerite threw down her
account-book and took the Journal, writing and reading:
“Hilarity Hall was the scene of unparalleled gaiety this
evening, the occasion being a reception which was tendered to
distinguished and honored guests, Sir Edward and Lady Mary. The
reception was held in the Grotto, after which the Duchess led
the way to the Refectory, where a limited collation was enjoyed.
The honored guests then inspected the Cinderella Section, and,
expressing themselves much pleased with their visit, they
reluctantly departed.”
“Why, this book is going to be fine,” said Betty. “What shall we call
it? Just the Journal?”
“No; let’s call it ‘Annals of Hilarity Hall,’” said Nan.
“What are annals?”
“I don’t know, but they’re things they always have in a quiet
neighborhood.”
“I don’t think much of annals anyway,” said Millicent; “let’s call it
something to do with cooking.”
“No; we have our ‘Blotter’ for that.”
The “Blotter” was the recipe scrap-book of the club, and was supposed to
be a very funny joke on Professor Blot.
“Why not call it something to suggest the sea?” said Nan.
“Call it the Whitecap,” said Millicent. “Then those who are prosaic can
mean the cook’s white cap, which is the badge of our club, and poetic
souls like Nan can mean the whitecaps of the breaking waves dashed
high.”
All agreed to this, and “The Whitecap” was scrawled across the cover in
artistically uncertain characters.
“Now, my lambs, you must go to bed,” said the Matron, ruffling up her
halo and looking very sleepy. “What time do we rise, Duchess?”
“Oh, whenever we unanimously agree to. We’ll all call each other. Where
are your candles, Lamplighter?”
“On the hall table”; and, sure enough, there stood eight candles,
burning in a heterogeneous assortment of candlesticks. Helen grasped her
banjo and began to play a lullaby.
“Put up the book, Poet, and come along.”
But Nan was adding a final verse, though her sleepy audience would
scarcely wait to hear:
“The rest of the evening passed quickly away,
And thus came to a close the first happy day.
Then each maid with her candle filed slowly upstairs,
The Minstrel preceding them, playing sweet airs.”