AND if my memory does not serve me falsely, I think there is a tent over yonder, and just around the corner bearing a sign like this:
DINNERS SERVED HERE
BY THE LADIES OF THE FIRST CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH
PRICE $.25
Mrs. Treat is a Congregationalist, and if all the church ladies are the experienced and skilful cooks she is, their patrons need not worry about receiving a full twenty-five cents worth. It always pays to be early at such a place, that I know full well, for the baskets may be empty before the last customers are fed. I’m not sure that the Treats will be at the Fair to-day, so I will be compelled to forage, and this rather appeals to me. I’ve often heard about church dinners.
“Hurrah, over there is the very place I’m seeking. And how amiable the mistress of ceremonies looks, standing over the stove at the rear of the tent. Doesn’t a white apron swathing a woman make you think involuntarily of things to eat? I suppose she’s preparing the coffee. I’ll not go in by the back door. She guards that too closely. Under the side of the tent is good enough for Billy.”
And under he went, as nimble as a kid, being egged on by gnawing hunger.
“Huh! I guess I am early. The tables are not yet spread. But they needn’t think I’m going to wait as long as that for a bite to eat. Their sign says
DINNERS SERVED
and they’ve absolutely no right to post such a notice when it isn’t true. They’re sailing under false colors. I’ll serve myself, seeing they are such fibbers.”
Truth to tell, this suited Billy much better anyway, and he began to explore the territory under the picnic tables. Numerous baskets, all heaped with eatables, were snugly stowed away here for safe keeping until it was time to lay the tables, and Billy decided to examine each in turn. In one he discovered an immense pan of nicely browned beans. Boston baked beans, just fresh from some generous oven needed to extend no second invitation to Billy. He greedily devoured them, and then passed on to the neighboring basket.