“Bill of fare?” I query.
“Yes, that menu by your plate.”
I had taken it for a leaf decoration. It is named at the top A Leaf From Webster. Webster’s dictionary? It is the first page of S as that initial heads each dish. Sabine-fish, sacar-game, saccharine-pastry, sack-drink.
Serpenta comes in with Show Off behind her and sits up opposite. As we part the fish with our knives and forks, so new to them, they are delighted and get us to do theirs.
As Saucy blandly puts a piece in her mouth with her fork, they rush to her, thinking her mouth speared. She drops the fork.
In father’s hand is so familiar shape of white China cup and filling also. I hastily taste my own. It is “ice cream,” the white cup a macaroon.
But as the spoon, with which I tasted, goes into my mouth, they rush to me, thinking it strained. We drop now our spoon and take up the sack, which is in Arc cups shaped like bottles, which are gum paste.
To cover our discomfiture, we arise in unison, touch and drink boon fashion. When boom, crack, roar, the ground beneath us shakes.
The two opposite, natives here, spring to their feet with distending eyes, standing transfixed as the cracking roar continues, listening to the approach of a sucking, whistling sound, which long drawn, lessens and gradually disappears when they recover composure.
My first idea of the panic was that it was God’s displeasure of our dissipation. Quickly banishing this I recognized the crackling as that of ice, which denoted the real danger. The sucking sound was so like water, which, escaping to the river, had ended the commotion. Ah Arc! Highest of all! Yet is death ever beneath!