Thus you valiantly maintained your position—and Hen’s.
When you and Hen had pantingly arrived at the rendezvous you had found yourselves in the midst of baskets and bustle. The baskets gave forth fascinating, mysterious clinks. In your individual capacity of guest you had brought no basket of your own, but you had helped Hen carry down the Schmidt contribution, and you knew of what it spake and smelled, and you had peeked in under the cover. Besides, Hen had told you, in detail.
Clad in necessarily stout shoes, but quite superfluously clean waists, you and he, with the basket between, had hastened to the place of assembly.
Other boys appeared. Poor indeed was that wight who could not rake up a Baptist friend—particularly if his own church gave picnics. Therefore, behold, as at the millennium, the creeds of your world united to-day under one flag—which happened to be the Baptist.
Snoopie Mitchell, of course, was there. Snoopie usually went fishing or skating on Sunday; but at picnic-time and Christmas even he did not deny the comforts of the church.
“Hello!” you said.
“Hello!” said Snoopie nonchalantly. “Aw, you kids are too late!”
Snoopie never was too late. He had the instincts of the ranging shark, and, moreover, perfect freedom to obey them.
“Why?” demanded you and Hen breathlessly.
“They took it away. Gee! Two freezers bigger’n me!”