“Too much,” groaned Bart.
“I hope you have room for the pudding,” spoke Fenn, anxiously. “Don’t say you can’t eat some of my plum pudding! Why I have a regular sauce, made from a recipe in a book, to eat on it.”
“Oh, I guess we can tackle a slice,” remarked William, and Fenn went proudly to the stove, where the pudding was being kept hot, and soon had it on the table, flanked by two bowls of savory sauce.
“Let me carve it,” begged Ned, with a look at Frank and Bart. “I’ll serve it, Fenn. You’ve done enough.”
“All right,” agreed the manufacturer of the pudding.
Ned carefully inserted a knife in the smoking heap on the plate. Fenn looked proudly on, as a generous piece was passed to William, as the guest of the day. Then Bart and Frank were served. The latter gave a sudden outcry.
“I say, Fenn!” he demanded. “Is this a joke, or what? I thought you were going to give us plum pudding!”
“So I am. What’s that on your plate?”
“I don’t know what it is,” declared Frank, indignantly, “only I know it isn’t plum pudding. It looks like dough, but it’s got the queerest collection of plums in it that I ever saw. Look, here’s a piece of rubber boot, part of a shoe, some pine cones, some sticks of wood, stones, part of a rope, some brass cartridges and some flannel bandages. Plum pudding! Take a look,” and Frank passed to the astonished Fenn, the plate of the dubious looking mess.