"Dahlia, I apologize," I said. "You are quite right. We will visit
this little church together, and see who was buried there."
Myra looked up from the book she had been studying, Jovial Jaunts
Round Jibmouth.
"There isn't a church at Little Chagford," she said. "At least there
wasn't two years ago, when this book was published. So that looks as
though it can't be VERY early Norman."
"Then let's go on," said Archie, after a deep silence.
We found a most delightful little spot (which wasn't famous for
anything) for lunch, and had the baskets out of the car in no time.
"Now, are you going to help get things ready," asked Myra, "or are
you going to take advantage of your sex and watch Dahlia and me do
all the work?"
"I thought women always liked to keep the food jobs for themselves,"
I said. "I know I'm never allowed in the kitchen at home. Besides,
I've got more important work to do--I'm going to make the fire."
"What fire?"
"You can't really lead the simple life and feel at home with Nature
until you have laid a fire of twigs and branches, rubbed two sticks
together to procure a flame, and placed in the ashes the pemmican or
whatever it is that falls to your rifle."
"Well, I did go out to look for pemmican this morning, but there
were none rising."
"Then I shall have my ham sandwich hot."
"Bread, butter, cheese, eggs, sandwiches, fruit," catalogued Dahlia,
as she took them out; "what else do you want?"
"I'm waiting here for cake," I said.
"Bother, I forgot the cake."
"Look here, this picnic isn't going with the swing that one had
looked for. No pemmican, no cake, no early Norman church. We might
almost as well be back in the Cromwell Road."
"Does your whole happiness depend on cake?" asked Myra scornfully.
"To a large extent it does. Archie," I called out, "there's no
cake."
Archie stopped patting the car and came over to us. "Good. Let's
begin," he said; "I'm hungry."
"You didn't hear. I said there WASN'T any cake--on the contrary,
there is an entire absence of it, a shortage, a vacuum, not to say a
lacuna. In the place where it should be there is an aching void or
mere hard-boiled eggs or something of that sort. I say, doesn't
ANYBODY mind, except me?"
Apparently nobody did, so that it was useless to think of sending
Archie back for it. Instead, I did a little wrist-work with the
corkscrew....
"Now," said Archie, after lunch, "before you all go off with your
butterfly nets, I'd better say that we shall be moving on at about
half-past three. That is, unless one of you has discovered the slot
of a Large Cabbage White just then, and is following up the trail
very keenly."
"I know what I'm going to do," I said, "if the flies will let me
alone."
"Tell me quickly before I guess," begged Myra.
"I'm going to lie on my back and think about--who do you think do
the hardest work in the world?"
"Stevedores."
"Then I shall think about stevedores."
"Are you sure," asked Simpson, "that you wouldn't like me to show
you that signalling now?"
I closed my eyes. You know, I wonder sometimes what it is that makes
a picnic so pleasant. Because all the important things, the eating
and the sleeping, one can do anywhere.