“Blackie.”
“Hmm. I decalculate from dat name dat you are repartial to doughnuts.” There was a sweet, sugary smell in the warm kitchen air.
“Doughnuts? You said it, chef!”
“Catch!”
The grinning Ellick deftly caught up a doughnut from a bowl beside him, and tossed it in the air. Blackie got under it like a veteran fielder, and sped out the door. The gangling Leggy aimed a parting swing at him with the long-tailed spoon, and missed.
On the parade ground, Blackie paused in his headlong lakeward course at the sight of Gil Shelton, hair combed, face shining from a recent scrubbing, and spotless for supper. “Hey, Blackie, where you heading? After fence-post holes?”
“Yep—how did you know? And striped paint and a left-handed bunk-stretcher and——”
Gil started in great surprise. “Don’t tell me,” he exclaimed, “that they picked you to bring the Royal Official Back-Scratcher?”
“They sure have.”
“That’s a great honor, my son. In fact, only the newest and greenest boys are ever picked for it. Say, Blackie, I didn’t think you’d fall for that old stuff. Did you ever see a fence-post hole? Does striped paint come in cans?”