“Well, Molly Breckenridge, one thing I can say for you. That is: it’s a good thing Miss Rhinelander isn’t here to see you now. You—you act like a little pig. Excuse me, but you really do.”
“Cats do like fish. Maybe it’s a cat. Let’s call it a cat, anyway,” answered Molly, in no wise offended by her chum’s plain speech. Then lifting her voice she began to call: “Kitty! Kitty! Kitty—kitty—kitty—kitty—kitty—come!” as fast as she could speak.
Just then Mrs. Cook came out to them to remove their plates and bring them generous portions of “John’s Delight,” a dessert which Molly declared was “first cousin to a Christmas plum pudding,” and over which she was tempted to smack her lips in earnest, not pretence. A momentary soberness touched her merry face, however, when the hostess observed with keen regret:
“I am so sorry Son isn’t here to do the honors of this little picnic. I don’t see where he can have gone. His dinner on shore is always such a pleasure to him and besides—I wanted him to meet you all in a private fashion, not as a bugler aboard-ship.”
“Maybe—maybe he is—is doing the honors!” said Molly, half choking over the strange remark. “Maybe he’s—he can see—he’s rather shy, isn’t he? The sailor said they called him the ‘Bashful Bugler.’ But he—he bugles beautifully, especially first calls to meals which a seasick girl can’t eat. I—”
Then she stopped abruptly. Mrs. Cook was looking at her with much the same expression Dorothy’s mobile face had worn; and again from overhead came that ominous crackle of breaking twigs. Also, a few crushed leaves fluttered to the ground and caused Dorothy to exclaim:
“Must be a pretty big cat to tear things like that. Did you see it? Do you suppose it’s a wildcat? Don’t they have all sorts of creatures in the Nova Scotia woods? Do you suppose it’s wild—”
“It certainly is. It’s about the wildest thing I ever met—of its size. Isn’t this pudding delicious? If I was a hungry, a sea-starved cat how angry I should be to be kept out of my share of it just by a couple of girls. Girls are cats’ natural enemies. Sometimes girls eat cats—if they’re nice, purry, pussy-cats! Some cats have blue eyes, and some—Why, Papa! Are you ready? Going so soon?”
“Yes, dear. I can’t wait any longer. I am greatly disappointed in not seeing Melvin again; but possibly he may run up to the station before the train starts. I’ll try to be there early. As early as I can, though I have some little affairs here still to attend to. Good-by, Mrs. Cook. I think the plan we have discussed is the best all round. It will be a test, so to speak. There is nothing like life in the woods together to break down all barriers of shyness or reserve.
“Thank you, cordially, for your hospitality. I haven’t enjoyed a dinner so much in many a day. I will see you again, if we return this way, and I will keep you informed of my address if our plan falls through and we have to try some other.”