Sweet, soft, melodious music was now heard coming from behind the alder clump. A sad and plaintive air from Gounod’s “Faust.”
“Oh,” cried Peggy, “that’s Father’s flute; he wants to play us in to breakfast.”
Ah, breakfast is a magic word to denizens of the woods and wilds; and now the giant, and the dwarf, and Ralph and Peggy, all made a somewhat unromantic rush for the tent, and were soon seated, laughing and talking, at the breakfast-table.
CHAPTER III.
A Forest Play.
THE tent was really as roomy as a small marquee, though bell-shaped. It was part and parcel of the theatrical properties of these Wandering Minstrels, and came in very handy in many ways during the performance of “The Forest Maiden,” and other short plays, all of which were composed by Reginald Fitzroy, or “Father,” as the proprietor of this show was called.
One of the duties of Giant Gourmand was to pitch the tent, for the fact is that no one else could have raised it. The canvas once hoisted, old Molly Muldoon went inside to stand by the pole and balance it until Gourmie went forth and fixed the outer and inner rows of pegs artistically.
The giant slept in the tent at night, all the year round. Indeed, he preferred to do so, for this reason—he snored louder than a big basketful of bull-frogs. He knew that he did so. He snored so loud at times that he awoke himself, and the marvel is that he didn’t swallow the pole. Snoring isn’t a poetic accomplishment, and nobody need snore if the mouth is kept shut. But then giants are—well, giants are giants, you know, and have a great many queer ways that smaller people like you and me haven’t got.
Gourmand had all one side of the table to himself, and when there was a joint of meat it was his duty to carve it; and, really, with the great knife and fork in his huge fists he put one in mind of the story of “Jack and the Bean-stalk,” the tent pole being the stalk. He sometimes looked fierce enough to frighten a motor car. “Never mind,” Peggy could have told you, “Gourmie is the kindest big lump of a giant ever anybody knew.” He was nearly always smiling. His smile was an expansive one. In fun Willie the dwarf used to jump on Gourmie’s knee sometimes with a tape to measure it. When tired of Willie’s antics the giant would lift him off his knee, as one lifts a troublesome kitten, and place him gently on the ground. But, big as he was, this giant would have stepped aside rather than crush the life out of a beetle.
Fitzroy himself was a strange kind of being, about fifty years old, smart and good-looking, with a face that was easy to make up for any character, old or young, male or female. He came of a very good family, and might have graced either the Church or the Bar, but for his love of music and wandering. Anybody was Reginald’s friend if he could play some instrument well. Reginald Fitzroy’s fad was flute-making. He was always fashioning a new flute, and, having a persuasive tongue, he generally managed to sell these well.
But come, breakfast is waiting, and old Molly has placed a splendid meal before the company to-day. That bacon is done to a turn, the bread and the butter are unexceptionable, the eggs new-laid, the coffee ever so fragrant, and, in addition to all this which the little people may partake of, Gourmand has a goose’s egg, and the half of a cold roast hedgehog to finish off with.