"At any rate," Janet said, "let's get everything ready, not only for supper,"—you see, it wasn't called dinner any longer,—"but for washing-up afterwards."
So Kink went off for some more water, and a large basin was set on a box, and dishcloths were put by it; and a rackety search began for plates, and knives and forks, and mugs, and tinned fruits, and more plates and spoons and moist sugar, and all the other things which appear on our tables at mealtimes as naturally as leaves on the trees, but which in a caravan mean so much fuss and perplexity. In fact, all the children returned home with a vastly increased respect for the ability and punctuality of Collins and Eliza Pollard and Jan Masters.
For a while the air was simply full of questions and remarks, some of which I copy down, and you may guess who asked them.
"I say, Janet, where's the tin-opener?"
"Janet, dear, ought we to have napkins?"
"Hester, you little nuisance, get off that box; it's got the bread in it."
"Hester, stop reading and come and help."
"Horace, the fire's nearly out."
"I wish some of you would stop talking and tell me where the tin-opener is."
"Jack, you lazy ruffian, why don't you get some more sticks?"