“I think so,” said Hilda, doubtfully. “I never saw any cooked, but how else could we eat them? This fire doesn’t seem very hot, Cricket. Can’t we do something to it?”
Considering that the stove lids had been off for fifteen minutes during the bread-toasting, it was not surprising that the top of the fire was a mass of gray ashes.
“Put on coal,” said Cricket, with the air of the lady from Philadelphia. “But do let’s cook the herring first. I’m hungry enough to eat Mosina. Oh, you fatty! aren’t you happy with your cookies!”
“Oh, Cricket, here are some cold boiled potatoes,” cried Hilda, as joyfully as if she had discovered a gold mine. “They were back in this corner. Can’t we fry them?”
“We can,” returned Cricket, promptly. “I’ll fry them in the saucepan while you do the herring. I’ll cut them up.”
Ten minutes later, the two little cooks stood looking at each other in despair. The thin iron of the spider and saucepan heated immediately, even over the dying fire, and the potatoes and herring being put in without any lard, or fat of any kind, naturally stuck fast to the bottom of the pan, and scorched. Most unpleasant odours filled the air.
“Did you ever imagine it was so hard to cook?” sighed Cricket. “That toast was stone-cold long ago. Look at these messy things!”
“The worst of it is that we can’t eat the burned parts,” said Hilda, hungrily, “and there’ll be so little left.”
“Hilda, let’s eat what we can of it right now,” proposed Cricket. “If we cook any more we’ll never get anything to eat.”
“I could eat fried boards,” said Hilda. “Yes, let’s scrape out what of the potatoes isn’t burned tight down, and eat it up fast;” and Hilda picked up the saucepan.