“It is,—oyster-mushroom soup,” said Madeline, “and it’s the first course. Next come the ‘inky drippers’—excuse me, K., we can call them coprinus, if you like that name better—and then two entrées, giant puff-balls fried in batter, and meadow mushrooms broiled in butter and their own juice.”
“Um!” sighed Mary joyously. “Doesn’t it sound inviting? Think of eating an all-mushroom, four-course supper! Isn’t this elegance for you?”
“Think of the indigestion we’ll get,” put in Babbie, who was curled up on the window-seat, industriously slicing puff-balls into the pan of another borrowed chafing-dish.
“Indigestion!” repeated Babe. “I don’t mind that, but suppose Madeline’s made a mistake about her dippers of ink—is that their name, Madeline?—and we all die of poisoning. Does any one know of a grudge Madeline has against me?”
“No. Why?” asked Rachel.
“Because,” announced Babe proudly, “she might be poisoning us off the way Nero did his friends. He used to give banquets, and of course everybody had to eat whatever came along, including mushrooms; and when they got home they died.”
“Hear the prodigy of learning!” declaimed Bob. “I’m proud of you, Baby. Did you read up mushrooms in the encyclopædia?”
“Not much,” said Babe. “I never read for fun. I studied up Nero for a nine o’clock history class Monday morning.”
“Well, you haven’t any of Nero’s kind of mushroom, have you, Madeline?” asked Katherine.
“You’ll know about that to-morrow,” cut in Babe. “It takes twenty-four hours to make sure.”