"Don't come in here botherin' me," said the cook, intolerantly. "What
with your mother bein' away on a visit, an' your father comin' home
soon to lunch, I have enough on my mind--and that without bein'
bothered with _you_. The kitchen is no place for little boys, anyhow.
Run away, and don't be interferin' with my work." She frowned and made
a grand pretence of being deep in herculean labors; but Jimmie did not
run away.
"Now--they're goin' to have a picnic," he said, half audibly.
"What?"
"Now--they're goin' to have a picnic."
"Who's goin' to have a picnic?" demanded the cook, loudly. Her accent
could have led one to suppose that if the projectors did not turn out
to be the proper parties, she immediately would forbid this picnic.
Jimmie looked at her with more hopefulness. After twenty minutes of
futile skirmishing, he had at least succeeded in introducing the
subject. To her question he answered, eagerly:
"Oh, everybody! Lots and lots of boys and girls. Everybody."
"Who's everybody?"
According to custom, Jimmie began to singsong through his nose in a
quite indescribable fashion an enumeration of the prospective
picnickers: "Willie Dalzel an' Dan Earl an' Ella Earl an' Wolcott
Margate an' Reeves Margate an' Walter Phelps an' Homer Phelps an'
Minnie Phelps an'--oh--lots more girls an'--everybody. An' their
mothers an' big sisters too." Then he announced a new bit of
information: "They're goin' to have a picnic."
"Well, let them," said the cook, blandly.
Jimmie fidgeted for a time in silence. At last he murmured, "I--now--I
thought maybe you'd let me go."
The cook turned from her work with an air of irritation and amazement
that Jimmie should still be in the kitchen. "Who's stoppin' you?" she
asked, sharply. "I ain't stoppin' you, am I?"
"No," admitted Jimmie, in a low voice.
"Well, why don't you go, then? Nobody's stoppin' you."
"But," said Jimmie, "I--you--now--each fellow has got to take
somethin' to eat with 'm."
"Oh ho!" cried the cook, triumphantly. "So that's it, is it? So that's
what you've been shyin' round here fer, eh? Well, you may as well take
yourself off without more words. What with your mother bein' away on a
visit, an' your father comin' home soon to his lunch, I have enough on
my mind--an' that without being bothered with _you_!"
Jimmie made no reply, but moved in grief towards the door. The cook
continued: "Some people in this house seem to think there's 'bout a
thousand cooks in this kitchen. Where I used to work b'fore, there was
some reason in 'em. I ain't a horse. A picnic!"
Jimmie said nothing, but he loitered.
"Seems as if I had enough to do, without havin' _you_ come round
talkin' about picnics. Nobody ever seems to think of the work I have
to do. Nobody ever seems to think of it. Then they come and talk to me
about picnics! What do I care about picnics?"
Jimmie loitered.
"Where I used to work b'fore, there was some reason in 'em. I never
heard tell of no picnics right on top of your mother bein' away on a
visit an' your father comin' home soon to his lunch. It's all
foolishness."
Little Jimmie leaned his head flat against the wall and began to weep.
She stared at him scornfully. "Cryin', eh? Cryin'? What are you cryin'
fer?"
"N-n-nothin'," sobbed Jimmie.
There was a silence, save for Jimmie's convulsive breathing. At length
the cook said: "Stop that blubberin', now. Stop it! This kitchen ain't
no place fer it. Stop it!... Very well! If you don't stop, I won't
give you nothin' to go to the picnic with--there!"
For the moment he could not end his tears. "You never said," he
sputtered--"you never said you'd give me anything."
"An' why would I?" she cried, angrily. "Why would I--with you in here
a-cryin' an' a-blubberin' an' a-bleatin' round? Enough to drive a
woman crazy! I don't see how you could expect me to! The idea!"
Suddenly Jimmie announced: "I've stopped cryin'. I ain't goin' to cry
no more 'tall."
"Well, then," grumbled the cook--"well, then, stop it. I've got enough
on my mind." It chanced that she was making for luncheon some salmon
croquettes. A tin still half full of pinky prepared fish was beside
her on the table. Still grumbling, she seized a loaf of bread and,
wielding a knife, she cut from this loaf four slices, each of which
was as big as a six-shilling novel. She profligately spread them with
butter, and jabbing the point of her knife into the salmon-tin, she
brought up bits of salmon, which she flung and flattened upon the
bread. Then she crashed the pieces of bread together in pairs, much as
one would clash cymbals. There was no doubt in her own mind but that
she had created two sandwiches.
"There," she cried. "That'll do you all right. Lemme see. What 'll I
put 'em in? There--I've got it." She thrust the sandwiches into a
small pail and jammed on the lid. Jimmie was ready for the picnic.
"Oh, thank you, Mary!" he cried, joyfully, and in a moment he was off,
running swiftly.
The picnickers had started nearly half an hour earlier, owing to his
inability to quickly attack and subdue the cook, but he knew that the
rendezvous was in the grove of tall, pillarlike hemlocks and pines
that grew on a rocky knoll at the lake shore. His heart was very light
as he sped, swinging his pail. But a few minutes previously his soul
had been gloomed in despair; now he was happy. He was going to the
picnic, where privilege of participation was to be bought by the
contents of the little tin pail.
When he arrived in the outskirts of the grove he heard a merry clamor,
and when he reached the top of the knoll he looked down the slope upon
a scene which almost made his little breast burst with joy. They
actually had two camp-fires! Two camp-fires! At one of them Mrs. Earl
was making something--chocolate, no doubt--and at the other a young
lady in white duck and a sailor hat was dropping eggs into boiling
water. Other grown-up people had spread a white cloth and were laying
upon it things from baskets. In the deep cool shadow of the trees the
children scurried, laughing. Jimmie hastened forward to join his
friends.
Homer Phelps caught first sight of him. "Ho!" he shouted; "here comes
Jimmie Trescott! Come on, Jimmie; you be on our side!" The children
had divided themselves into two bands for some purpose of play. The
others of Homer Phelps's party loudly endorsed his plan. "Yes, Jimmie,
you be on _our_ side." Then arose the usual dispute. "Well, we got the
weakest side."
"'Tain't any weaker'n ours."
Homer Phelps suddenly started, and looking hard, said, "What you got
in the pail, Jim?"