“Five!” Maida exclaimed. “Why Floribel ought to have been home at five! What train can she get now?”
Nobody knew, but Arthur remembered there was a time-table in the library. They clustered about him. To most of them it was as difficult as Greek; but to Arthur, who had had some experience in traveling and to Maida who had had a great deal, it did not seem insolvable.
They puzzled over it together.
“There’s a train at six from Boston and another at seven,” they finally decided. “And that’s all.”
“She must have lost the three from Boston,” Maida declared. “But the six from Boston isn’t due here until eight. And in the meantime we’ll have to get supper.”
“Say let us boys help,” Arthur suggested. “It must be a big job cooking for twelve. I know how to cook,” he added unexpectedly.
“Where did you learn, Arthur?” Maida asked with interest.
“Tramping with my father,” Arthur answered briefly. “We often camped in the woods for days.”
“Supper isn’t so hard as dinner,” Rosie said hopefully. “Now I propose that we have a combination salad with hard-boiled eggs cut up in it. You see there’s a lot of cold vegetables in the ice chest and we can make a custard and orange pudding.”
The whole group, three girls and three boys, bustled into the kitchen. From a drawer full of aprons, Rosie took out enough for all of them. The little girls wore the aprons as they should be worn, but in the boys’ case, Rosie tied them around their necks. “I’ve seen boys cook before,” she announced scornfully, “and when they get through, they generally look as though they had fallen into a barrel of something.”