The lad laughingly obeyed. Then demanded:—
"What for?"
Cleena replied by action rather than word. She tied a fresh gingham apron about his shoulders and brought the strings around in front so that his mud-stained clothing was entirely covered. Then she led him to her kneading-table and set a bucket of sifted flour before him.
"Make biscuit."
"How many?"
"Three hundred. Fall to, measure, I'll count."
She did. For two whole hours the pair labored in that kitchen, Fayette kneading, cutting out, slipping the pans into the ovens and removing them; while Cleena spread and cut tongue after tongue, till even more than the original supply had been reproduced. Then she paused and looked up.
There stood Teamster John in the doorway, smiling and watching Fayette's new occupation with genuine surprise.
"Shucks! makin' a cook out of him? Ain't ye rather late with your luncheon? I drove up to carry the baskets down to the 'Island.'"