"If you had endured the sufferings that I have in Bailey's
Harbor—" began Sprague.
"There are three dozen eggs," said Pete, "and that's more than four apiece, and there is plenty of bacon,—stop talking and get busy."
In ten minutes we were eating breakfast. They had trouble to keep us all supplied with fried eggs, until two skillets were put into commission. Then there was silence for a time.
"There's an apple pie down there," remarked Sprague, as he helped himself to another cup of coffee.
Mr. Daddles hurried below, and soon came up with the pie.
"I hope some of you will," said he, "you do, in this region, don't you?"
"In obscure parts of the ulterior," said Pete, "I have heard that the habit lingers of eating pie for breakfast. It's merely a tradition in my family, I regret to say."
"The old, robust stock is dying out," said Sprague, mournfully, "but my father has told me that in his youth he often saw his father do it. We are over civilized, but if there should be any great national crisis,—a war, or anything like that,—I have no doubt that New England would rally once again, and—"
"I am so much disappointed," said Daddles, turning slowly about, with the pie in one hand, "my poor grandmother has often told me about it, and I did hope to see the weird, old custom practised on its native heath—won't you? Or you?"
He turned to one after the other of us.