Then Molly cleared away and washed up. She stowed plates and dishes in the rack of the big caravan, so neatly that they never even rattled during the journey. The mugs that did duty as cups and saucers were hung in the after-cabin, and knick-knacks placed in cupboards.
“Now, then, Molly, bear a hand,” cried the giant.
“I’se ready, Gourmie, my dear, and bless the Lord, lovie, that we’ve got a fine day and a dry tent to pack. To pack up a wet tent is——”
Gourmand seized the big pole.
“Gee-ho-up!” he shouted; “stand clear, all hands that don’t want to be smothered.”
Down came the tent!
“Honolulu!” he cried, a moment afterwards. “Where on earth is old Molly?”
And a faint voice answered him from under the canvas—a skinny leg with a boot on its foot was protruding from under it!
“I be’s a-scrambling in here, Gourmie. You’ve been and gone and lowered the tent right atop of your poor Molly. Oh, my poor old bones!”
But Gourmand soon had her clear. Then she helped him to get out the pegs and to smooth and fold the canvas, till it was all small enough to put into the sack—pegs, mallet, divided pole and all. The bag was hoisted on to the cart.