“I’ll drive Browny!” cried cheery little Dick, always ready to acquiesce to any plan.
“Now, mother,” wheedled Mr. Treat, “don’t you worry! That machinist told me a lot of things about the auto, and you know I drove to Springfield and back again last night after supper. I made the return trip alone, too, and so nothing’s going to happen to-day. Boys,” dismissing the subject, “help pack the hamper, and I’ll fill the gasolene tank.”
Boys and girls who have lived all their years in the city have scant idea of all the good things that went into the Treat hamper that morning.
There was a crisp salad of celery, apples, nuts and lettuce, dozens and dozens of sandwiches with a liberal filling of boiled ham, pickles—tomato pickles, cucumber pickles, pickled pears, pickled onions—cold chicken, sliced ham, baked beans, mince pie, pumpkin pie, doughnuts, and a delicious cake.
The preparation of the lunch was Mrs. Treat’s special pride, and all her housewifely art was exerted to make it the best her ovens could produce. As she spread the snowy napkins over the top of the bountiful feast, she said:
“This lunch basket is rather large, but it will set in that hamper on the auto very easily. I’ve packed this basket tight, and the things won’t jiggle at all. Now, Tom, you take hold of this side, and Harry, you may take this, and tell your father to crowd in newspapers securely about it so it can’t move an inch. I always think when I see an auto go spinning by that the trunk’ll surely bump off when they go over the thank-e-ma’ams on the hill.”
“Mama said to fix it tight,” cautioned Tom, as the basket was lifted to its place in the larger hamper on the rack.
“I’ll do that, my son, and now run in and bring me some more papers. This lunch must carry safely, or our day will be spoiled.”
“There!” sighed Mr. Treat, as he tested the hamper to see that no amount of bumping would disturb the lunch, “that will do, but I will let the lid be open, for mother’ll be sure to want to tuck in something else at the very last moment. Come along, boys, we’ll get our hats and then be off,” and they merrily trooped into the house.
Jealous Billy had not been idle all this time. Indeed, he had been spying out the situation from a favorite hiding-place in the hay mow, and now he descended to reconnoiter further.