“Wonder where they keep the biscuits?” Tad began to explore.
“You ought to know,” said his father. “You snoop everywhere.”
Tad scurried about, opening ovens and cupboards, lifting lids of boxes and the great copper pots.
“Bread,” he uncovered a stack of loaves, “but no biscuits.”
“Your billy will eat bread, sir,” suggested Private Bullitt. “He eats hardtack. He’ll eat anything, Mr. President. He ate Sergeant Whipple’s box from home. Had a cake in it. Et box and all, sir.”
“Well have to see to it that Sergeant Whipple gets another cake.” Lincoln took down a long knife from a rack on the wall and whacked off the end of a loaf of fresh bread. “Good bread.” He tasted a crumb. “Go good if we had some jam to put on it.”
“There’s jampots up there, Papa.” Tad pointed to a high shelf.
“So there are.” Lincoln reached a long arm, slit the paper that covered the top of a jar, dipped in a knife. “Blackberry.” He sliced off a hunk of bread, spread it thickly with jam, handed it to Private Bullitt. “Have some, boys.” He spread another slice for Gibson and one for Tad and himself. Perched on the edge of a table he ate, wiped his beard and fingers on a handy towel, passed the towel around. “Some drizzled on your jacket, Tad. Wipe it off. Now, I reckon somebody will get blamed for this piece of larceny, so I’d better take care of that.”
The cooks’ pad and pencil lay on a shelf and Lincoln tore off a sheet and wrote rapidly: All provisions missing from this kitchen requisitioned by order of the undersigned. A. Lincoln.
“That will fix it. You boys take this bread back to that billy goat and tell your sergeant I’ll see that he’s recompensed for his lost cake,” he said. “Now Tad, you come along to bed.”