“Quiet enough now,” Dorothy admitted, “though it was a bit hectic, to say the least, a while back. Call Terry in, will you? I’m going to do some scrambled eggs and bacon now.”
She reached for a bowl and began to crack eggs and break them into it. Bill stuck his head out the door and whistled.
A moment later, a heavy set, round faced lad of sixteen made his appearance in the doorway. Under his arm he carried a repeating rifle.
“H’lo, everybody,” he breezed, resting his rifle against the wall. “This is some surprise,—Bill and I were all set to play the heavy heroes and we find you making fudge!”
“Not fudge,” corrected Betty. “Honest-to-goodness food! Dorothy and I haven’t had a single thing to eat since lunch, except a lettuce sandwich and some cake at Helen Ritchie’s tea over at Peekskill this afternoon. We’re getting supper now.”
“We?” Dorothy’s tone was richly sarcastic. “Then, old dear, suppose you do some of the getting. I think I heard the front door shut just now, so that means that old Mr. Lewis has shoved off. You can go into the dining room and set the table.—Bill, you’re a good cook—how about starting the coffee? Terry, be a sport and cut some bread—you might toast it while you’re about it!”
“Whew!—some efficiency expert!” Terry winked at Bill. “Where do they keep the bread box in this house, anyway?”
“Barks her orders like a C.P.O. doesn’t she?” laughed Bill, opening the coffee tin. Then he drew forth a wax-paper wrapped loaf from an enameled container, held it up: “Here’s your bread, Terry—catch!”
The door from the dining room swung open and George came in.
“Well, George!” Dorothy turned to the others. “Here is our host,” she explained and introduced him all round.