ONE COOK SPOILS THE BROTH.
The question of what was to make up the dinner bill of fare appeared
to be an important one to all, and many were the suggestions made to
the cooks. Some proposed that the work of raising the tent be intrusted
to other hands, so that Bill and Tip could go out and bring in a deer
or a bear; others thought the old hen should be killed at once, and
served up as a roast; while one portion of the party seemed to think it
Captain Jimmy’s duty to get his ship under way and go after some fish
for a chowder.
But Tim and Bobby did not allow any of these remarks to trouble them;
they were the legally elected cooks, and they proposed to do the work
in their own way.
“We’ll get the dinner,” said Tim, with some dignity; “an’ after
it’s done, if you fellers don’t like it, you can cook one to suit
yourselves.”
But the cooks did listen to what Bill had to say, since he was one of
the high officials, and he was strongly in favor of making the first
dinner in camp a “big” one, even going so far as to propose in all
earnestness that the hen be killed.
“We might jest as well eat her,” he said, as he looked murderously
toward the unhappy fowl, which was struggling to free herself from her
bonds at the risk of breaking her leg. “’Cause jest as likely as not
she’ll get away, an’ then we sha’n’t so much as have a smell of her.”
“It will take us too long to fix her up for dinner,” said Tim, who was
just the least bit afraid that he was not cook enough to serve the hen
properly, “We can get enough to eat to-day without havin’ so much fuss.”
“I don’t care how long it takes; what we want is a bang-up dinner, an’
I go in for havin’ it now,” said Bill, decidedly.
Bobby was on the point of throwing the weight of his opinion against
the proposed feast when a bark of triumph was heard from Tip, and the
question was settled without farther discussion. The dog, which had
been struggling to get free from the time he had been tied so near
the hen, to which he seemed to think he had a perfect right, finally
succeeded in releasing himself. There was a sudden rush on his part, a
loud, cackling protest from poor Biddy, who seemed to anticipate her
fate, and then she was tossed in the air a dead chicken.
Bill had presence of mind enough, fortunately for the dinner prospects,
to seize his hen before Tip made his lunch from her, and he said, as he
handed her to Tim:
“There, you see Tip knew we ought to kill her, an’ so he did it for us.
Now we can have a good dinner.”
Tim made no reply, and perhaps for the first time in his life he was
angry with Tip for having meddled in matters which did not concern him.
It was necessary now to cook the hen, and as he stood with her in his
hand the terrible thought came to him that he did not even know enough
to prepare her for cooking.
“Do you think we had better have her roasted or boiled?” he asked, in a
low tone, of Bobby.
Now, this other cook was quite as perplexed about the matter as Tim
was, and he was thoroughly well pleased that he had allowed his partner
to take the lead in other matters, so that the latter would now be
obliged to take all the responsibility of the hen’s appearance at the
dinner-table.
“I think we had better roast her,” he said, in a careless sort of way,
as if to him one style of cooking was as easy as another.
Again was Tim disappointed. He had hoped Bobby would propose boiling
her, in which case all he would be obliged to do would be to pop her
into the kettle, letting her stay there until she was done. But since
Bobby was so cruel as to propose the hardest way of cooking the hen,
roasted it must be, or gone was his reputation as cook.
“I’ll pick the feathers off,” said Bill, gleefully; and Tim handed him
the fowl.
“I don’t seem to see how we’re goin’ to get along,” said Tim to Bobby.
“We ain’t got any dishes to cook her in.”
“We don’t want any, do we?” asked his assistant, in some surprise. “I
always thought when folks that were campin’ out cooked anything they
stuck it on a stick in front of the fire, an’ let it sizzle.”
“We can do it so now!” he exclaimed; and, since this suggestion had
been made, roasting chickens did not appear to be any very hard matter
after all.
He piled the wood on until he had a fire large enough to roast a
pig, cut a long, sharp stick on which to spit the hen, and had hardly
completed these preparations when Bill Thompson reappeared with the now
featherless victim of Tip’s bloodthirsty nature.
Bill’s work might have been done more neatly; but what did a few
feathers amount to when a dozen hungry boys were waiting to be fed? Tim
was not quite sure whether he had better cut off the head and legs,
or not; but, as they did not seem to be in the way, he concluded they
might as well be cooked. Neither did he think any cleaning necessary,
but plunged the stick through her, and stuck one end in the ground in
front of the fire with all the grace of an experienced cook.
The remainder of the party watched this work with hungry eagerness; and
when Tim filled the kettle with potatoes they settled themselves down
contentedly to wait for the “bang-up” dinner for which they were in a
measure indebted to Tip.
The water in the pot bubbled and boiled merrily; the murdered hen began
to steam and sizzle, till every boy’s mouth watered with anticipation;
while Tim and Bobby bustled around in an important manner, feeling that
they were looked up to as the head men of the party, and enjoying the
distinction immensely.
They piled on the wood, stirred the potatoes, as if that was the
important part of cooking that vegetable, while every few moments Tim
would smell of the hen, nearly singeing the hair from his head each
time. They were certainly good cooks, if keeping up a big fire could
make them so.
The hen did not appear to be revengeful at having been so suddenly
deprived of life, for in a short time her rather lean body began to
turn brown, and a most delicious odor arose on the air, even if she was
thickly incrusted with ashes.
As Tim turned her carefully he thought with surprise that he was a
really good cook, and blamed himself for having been so distrustful of
his own ability.
Thus matters went on, successfully but slowly, until some of the boys
showed such plain signs of impatience that Tim thought it necessary to
display more evidences of the dinner, even though the hen was far from
being roasted.
He and Bobby selected from the cooked provisions enough in the way of
pies and cake to make twice as large a party feel very uncomfortable.
They spread this feast at one side of the fire, where it would be out
of the way of the smoke, and Tim was trying to calculate how it would
be possible to cut an apple pie in eleven pieces, and have them all
of equal size, when a sound as of water coming in contact with fire,
accompanied by a cry of dismay from Bill Thompson, caused him to start
violently.
The sight that met his startled gaze was a sad one, and it did not seem
any less so to him than it did to all the others of that hungry party.
The kettle of potatoes had been hung to the poles by a rope, which had
burnt slowly until it broke, letting the potatoes, water, and kettle
into the fire, deluging the half-roasted hen, and basting it with
cinders until it looked like a huge ball of mud.
The steam and smoke were so dense that it was impossible to attempt a
rescue. All that could be done was to wait a few moments, and Tim spent
that time dancing around the ruins like a crazy Indian.
It was a horror-stricken party that stood around the drowned fire,
watching the cooks as they fished up first the muddy hen, and then the
potatoes, all looking very sorry for their plunge into the ashes.
“Now all you’ve got to do,” said Bill Thompson, with the air of one who
knew, “is to put the potatoes right back an’ wash the hen. They’ll
cook jest as well as ever, only it’ll take a little longer, that’s all.”
Surely there was nothing so serious about the accident if it could be
repaired with so little trouble, and the spirits of the party rose as
rapidly as they had fallen. The hen was given a sea bath, which took
nearly all the ashes off, and those which remained, Bill Thompson
thought, would make her taste the better. The potatoes did not need any
cleansing, so Tim thought, and were put into the pot again, looking
quite dirty, but in very nearly a cooked condition.
Another fire was built, and rocks were placed in such a way around it
that the kettle could rest on them. The hen was put on another stick,
and again the chances for dinner looked promising.
The food which had been spread out on the ground looked very tempting
to the idle ones of the hungry party, and every now and then one
would try to get a piece of pie or cake, until Tim, who was determined
that no one should have anything to eat until all could be served, was
almost at his wits’ end to prevent them from making a perfect raid on
the larder.
Finally, worn out with running from the fire to the table every time
he saw one of the party moving innocently up that way, he told Bobby
to keep strict guard over the food, and that young gentleman wiped
the ashes and perspiration from his face with an air of relief, as
he seated himself near the largest pie, prepared to act the part of
watch-dog.
Tip, who had been running about in everybody’s way, and seriously
troubling his master, now came toward the fire, and sat down on
his little stubbed tail in such a suspicious manner that Tim felt
reasonably certain it was his purpose to steal the hen whenever a good
opportunity presented itself.
Such base action on Tip’s part caused Tim more delay, as he was
obliged to tie the dog securely to a tree out of reach of temptation,
and by the time the tired cook got back to his work again a great
commotion was raised by Captain Jimmy and Bobby.
When Bill Thompson had quelled the tumult it was learned that Captain
Jim doubted Bobby’s honesty from the first moment he had been appointed
guardian of the food, and had watched him from behind a tree. He stated
positively that he saw Bobby’s eyes fixed on the apple-pie in such a
way as no officer of the company should look at a pie, unless the time
had come to eat it, and, at a time when he thought no one was looking,
Jim was sure he saw him put his fingers under the crust, pull out two
slices of apple, and eat them.
Of course such a charge as this caused intense excitement, and the
majority of the party thought Bobby ought to be punished in some way,
as a warning to others, and more especially to show that the officers
of the party should be above reproach, or, failing in their duty, be
punished severely.
Bobby actually grew frightened as his companions discussed the question
of his punishment, and he looked imploringly at Tim, thinking his
brother-officer should try to shield him in his crime of stealing the
pie. But there was no pity to be seen in the head cook’s face; he felt
that the taking of those two pieces of apple by the man who had been
appointed to guard them was indeed a crime.
Some of the party proposed that the culprit be condemned to go without
his dinner; others, not quite so bloodthirsty, believed he should be
deprived of his office, while there were those who believed that to
forbid him eating any pie would be punishment enough.
It is hard to say just how Bobby would have been obliged to atone for
the sin, if the hand of Justice had not been stayed by the dinner
itself.
The chicken was becoming blackened and burnt on one side, from not
being turned often enough, the potatoes were boiling into a perfect
jelly, and it was all being done so quickly that Tim had not the time
to attend to the food properly; therefore it was he who saved his
assistant from his judges.
“You’ll have to let him go this time, for he must help me,” he said.
“We’ll make him work all the harder to pay for what he’s done.”
Once more over the smoky fire and amid the flying ashes Bobby labored
for the good of others, working out the punishment for his sin.
The kettle of potatoes was taken from the fire; and while Bobby picked
out the pieces――for they had boiled until they were discouraged, and
had burst their skins――arranging them on two shingles, Tim took the
well-blackened remains of poor Biddy from the spit, laying them on a
short bit of board in great triumph.
Then the hungry party gathered around the place which represented the
table, and waited impatiently to be served.
Bill Thompson, with his hunting-knife, proceeded to carve the fowl,
which was a work of some time, owing to its exceeding toughness.
In order to show proper respect for the office he held, Bill waited on
Captain Jimmy first, and that young gentleman did not waste much time
before he began to eat.
The roast was quite raw inside, even though it was burnt outside, but
that, in Captain Jimmy’s hungry condition, made very little difference.
He cut off the first mouthful and began to eat in a ravenous manner,
when suddenly he stopped, looking very queer.
“What is the matter?” asked Tim, anxiously, quick to notice the change
in the captain’s face.
“I dunno,” said Jim; “but it tastes kind o’ funny.”
“That’s ’cause you ain’t used to hen,” said Bill, almost savagely, not
pleased that any one should find fault with his fowl.
Just then another of the party, who had received his portion and begun
eating, laid down his knife and fork with an unmistakable air of
discomfort.
“Perhaps you don’t like hen,” cried Bill, now growing angry that food
of his providing should be refused.
By this time several of the party had shown unmistakable signs of
disliking the roast, and Bill proceeded to make an investigation.
He cut off a large mouthful, and began eating it with the air of one
who thinks he knows just what he is about to taste, and has made up his
mind beforehand to be pleased. But he stopped as suddenly as the others
had, and looking sternly at Tim, he asked:
“What did you put on this hen?”
“Nothin’; perhaps it tastes queer ’cause the ’taters tipped over on
it.”
“It don’t taste like ’taters,” said Bill; “it tastes a good deal worse.”
Then he examined the uncarved portion of the fowl, and the mystery was
explained.
“I know what the matter is, an’ I don’t think you’re much of a cook,
Tim Babbige. You’ve cooked the hen without cleanin’ her, an’ of course
she’s spoiled.”
Tim could make no reply, for as soon as Bill spoke he remembered how
chickens ought to look when ready to be roasted, and he knew he could
no longer hope to be considered a competent cook.
That day the party made their dinner of boiled potatoes and pastry,
while Tip actually revelled on the half-roasted fowl he had so
ruthlessly slain.