Cricket and Hilda looked at each other a moment in silence, then Cricket said briskly:
“Isn’t this fun? Let’s play this is roast turkey. Shall I carve? or perhaps I’d better give you a whole turkey, seeing we are wealthy enough to have two,” transferring one of the herrings to Hilda’s plate. “Will you have some scalloped oysters?” passing the potatoes. “They’re done by a new recipe,” she added, laughing, and attacking her herring with knife and fork. Hilda followed her example. Of course they might as well have tried to cut their stone plates.
“I’m desperate! please excuse me,” cried Cricket, lifting her herring, head and tail, with her fingers, and attacking it this time with her teeth. She desisted after a vain effort.
“It’s no use,” she sighed. “I got off a few splinters, but they are not so very good. They do taste burned, and if there’s one thing I hate, it’s burn. Well, let’s have some toast.”
“That’s burned a little, too,” said Hilda, apologetically. “Perhaps we can scrape it off where it’s thicker and eat the inside. Cricket, these—these oysters seem to need something. They don’t taste like fried potatoes a bit.”
“Of course they don’t, for they’re oysters. How could oysters taste fried potatoes? But they do taste queer, even for oysters,” said Cricket. “The toast is a little burned, isn’t it?” nibbling first around one scorched place and then around another. Finally she laid the piece down in despair.
“Hilda, the more I eat, the hungrier I get! I think I’ll try some plain bread.”
“There isn’t any more. I toasted all I cut, and the rest you gave to Mosina.”
The two girls sat hungrily surveying the remains of their luncheon. The herring had been abandoned as hopeless. The white top of each little chunk of potato was eaten, though every one knows that scorched potato, without either salt or butter, is not exactly appetising. The inside of the thick ends of the bread had been devoured also, but their fragments were not very satisfying to hearty little appetites.
“There are the cookies,” said Hilda, suddenly.