Antha promptly burst into tears.
“Cry baby, cry baby,” mocked her brother.
Gladys and Hinpoha bore the weeping Antha away to one of the tents and the Sandwich boys took Anthony under their wing. The storm was still increasing 35 and it was plain that the Dalrymples would have to remain for the night.
“And no eggs or milk or bread for supper,” wailed Aunt Clara. “And we can’t bake anything because the oven won’t heat in this wind.”
“There’s loads of canned spaghetti,” said Gladys, investigating the supplies.
It was rather a hop-scotch meal that was served that night in the billowing supper tent, for, besides the bread and milk and eggs, the men had forgotten the canned beans which Aunt Clara had ordered for future use, but which would have helped admirably in this emergency. Then at the last moment they discovered that the sugar was out. But the hearty appetites of the Tribe were never dismayed at anything, and the spaghetti and unsweetened, black coffee disappeared as if it had been nectar and ambrosia. Judge Dalrymple waved aside Aunt Clara’s profuse apologies for the gaps in the menu and ate spaghetti heartily, but Antha picked at hers with a dissatisfied expression and hardly ate a mouthful. The Winnebagos saw it and were greatly pained because they had nothing better to offer.
“Ho-ho-ho!” scoffed Anthony. “Antha has to eat spaghetti because there isn’t anything else. That’s a good one on her. She never will eat it at home. Ho-ho-ho!” And he grimaced derisively at her across the table. Antha laid down her fork and dissolved in tears again.
36The judge, interrupted in his tale of the afternoon’s experience by the tempest at the other end of the table, turned toward the twins impatiently. “Stop your eternal bickering, you two!” he ordered sharply.
“Then make Anthony stop teasing me!” sniffled Antha.
Just at that moment Gladys, who had been foraging desperately in the “pantry,” came forth with a box of crackers and a small jar of jam, which Antha consented to eat in place of the spaghetti.