“I missed it because I overslept. When I came down to the main lodge, I discovered that the wedding couple and their party had departed at dawn. The caretaker there was a jolly fellow who liked to talk. Believe me, I started him on the subject of fox hunts. I had to get some sort of story to my chief. The old fellow told me all he knew, which, aided by my healthy imagination, made a grand story. I described the woods in the early morning, the dogs sniffing, the barking, and finally, the triumphant end.”
“You faked it?” Even Chub was scandalized.
Cookie nodded. “Had to. Well, I approached my chief’s desk with shaking knees, when I got back, expecting to be told I was fired. Instead he said, ‘Cookie, old kid, I believe you’ll make an extra space rate man, some day. You covered the Vanderflips pretty well, for the most part. But that fox hunt story—that was the cream of the whole collection!’”
“Didn’t you ever tell him?” Joan wanted to know.
“No. I was tempted to, often,” acknowledged the old reporter. “He was a good sort. Most editors are. At that, I hadn’t done anything so terrible. A great many editors would rather have a plausible and entertaining fake than a dull, colorless fact. He hates to be taken in, himself. He wants to be in on the joke, too. But it’s best to be honest always,” he warned.
“We’re almost there!” piped the shrill tones of the head pressman’s oldest son, as the bus swooped through a rustic gate and down into a shady, cool, cavernous valley. On one side huge gray cliffs, ragged and old, now rose to greet them. One looked like the Old Man of the Mountain. The busses stopped at the side of the quaint old pavilion, where supper would be served in event of rain, and every one was out in two seconds.
“First thing on the program,” announced Cookie, “is—
Lemonade
Made in the shade
Stirred with a rusty spade.”