“And now, go to ’em. Remember, we may have nothing but pork and beans in a few days. Help yourselves. I don’t know what else Robert has for dinner.”
When the little golden brown fish had disappeared, held by the head and eaten like a confection—for Mr. Mackworth would permit neither knife nor fork—Captain Ludington sank back with a sigh.
“Mr. Mackworth,” he exclaimed, “of all the pleasures you have given us and promised, none can take the place of this. It is the sweetest morsel I ever ate.”
“And the cook who prepared that dish is to go with us?” asked Lord Pelton eagerly.
Mr. Mackworth looked about and nodded his head toward Jake Green.
“Robert thinks he cooked ’em,” he answered laughing, “but he only thinks so. It was Jake who gave them just the dash of salt; the suspicion of pepper and a touch of flour. No railroad chef knows just the temperature of the pure olive oil into which they were dropped for a few moments. Jake,” continued Mr. Mackworth, “they were almost as good as if they had been cooked on the Little Manistee.”
“Thank you, sir,” exclaimed Jake, “but trout ain’t trout away from the stream.”
“That’s right,” said his employer. “And if we’re lucky enough to find some mountain rainbow trout where we are goin’, Jake’ll attempt his masterpiece—a balsam bake. Then he’ll serve you what the chefs of Europe can’t duplicate—a cooked trout on whose sides the gold and carmine tints are yet glowing.”
“I suppose,” broke in Mr. Graham with a laugh and addressing the Englishmen, “you’d like to know why the trout were served first and alone?”
The guests turned toward him curiously.