“So we waited for the next boat, but John didn’t know why, and never will!”
AT THE COOKING CLASS
“Oh, am I late? I’m so sorry! My dear Miss Cooke, have I kept your class waiting? Now don’t look at me like that! Cheery and blithe, please. And Milly,—just wait a minute till I fold up this veil; they get so rubbishy if you don’t,—truly, I started early enough, but, you see, I met Roddy Dow, and—we took a walk around the block,—it’s such a sunny, shiny, country kind of a day, we just had to. Of course, I told him I was in a hurry to get to class, and I babbled on about all the whipped angel food and eggless omelets we’re going to learn to make, and he said,—girls, what do you think he said? He said I was fluffy-minded! Me! the greatest living example of a young woman with earnest aims and high ideals! Well,—so I said—yes, yes, Miss Cooke, I am folding it up as fast as I can,—I’ll be ready in a minute,—don’t make that foolish noise, pretty lady. Shall I sit here by Flossy Fay? Oh, what winsome looking creatures! Live crabs? Are they? And we’re to learn to make “Crab Flakes à la Pittsburg?” Oh, how perfectly gorgeous! Do you know, Flossy, I met that Pittsburg man last night,—that Mr. Van Roxie. Yes, the one with one lung and thirty millions. He’s too ducky for words! He didn’t approve of me at first,—I sat next to him at dinner, you know,—because I asked him whether he’d rather talk politics or have a lover’s quarrel. He looked at me sort of gimletty,—if you know what I mean,—and he said I was a Pink and White Mistake! Me! the Only Original Magazine-Cover Girl! Well—so I said,—yes, Miss Cooke, I’m listening. Certainly I know what you said; you said,—well, you said something about eggs. No, I don’t recall exactly what,—to me, there’s always an air of mystery about eggs, anyway. And, besides, most all the recipes are eggless, nowadays,—it’s the latest fad. Oh, cream the yolks? Now, isn’t that funny? My new mauve messaline has a cream yoke,—that heavy lace, you know,—I think they call it,—My heavens and earth! Miss Cooke! One of the crabs is loose! Oh, girls, get up on your chairs! That’s right, Flossy,—climb up on this table, by me!
“O-o-ooh! Police! Turn in an alarm, somebody! Miss Cooke! Don’t try to pick him up! He’ll attack you,—and rend you limb from limb!
“Don’t you step on him! I’m a termagant S. P. C. A. and I won’t see a poor dumb crab cruelly treated in my presence! There! He’s run under that cupboardy thing! You’ll have to poke him out again!
“Oh, Flossy, don’t jump about so! This table will break down; it feels wriggly now.
“Please, Miss Cooke, don’t scold me! I can’t help feeling nervous when that terrifying monster is walking abroad. Well, I will keep still, but maybe I won’t resign from this Cooking Class, if we have to have such frisky viands!
“And, Miss Cooke, I hate to seem intrusive,—but there’s another crab flew the coop,—and he’s grabbing your apron string,—it’s untied.
“Oh, I thought that would make you jump ‘Calm yourself,’—as you said to me; ‘he won’t hurt you, if you pick him up properly,’—you said.