It was pretty late. The moon had gone down, and the garden was dark, with the four men making four mounds of deeper black where they sat. Suddenly a light in the house switched on, sending out a stream of light that picked out Bob, his hair tousled, his eyes blinking in the sudden glare.
Hal started. “It must be late,” he said anxiously. “I’d better be getting on. The night air—I shouldn’t have stayed so long.”
The screen door of the house slammed, and a figure approached, then down the garden walk, strangely burdened.
“Hang around,” said Captain Bill, starting up. “This is going to be interesting.” He hurried down the path and met Bob’s mother, whose strange burden turned out to be a tray with glasses and a covered dish. He took the tray from her. “You can’t go now,” he called to Hal. “Look what we’ve got.” He set the tray down, and lifted the napkin from the plate. “Home baked cookies,” he said, and took one. “You should have joined our group sooner,” he said to his sister, between bites.
“Because I brought cookies, I suppose, if for no other reason,” she said with a laugh.
“Why, Meg, you know that you’d be welcome even without cookies. You should have been here to hear your son and my nephew tell a grand story in a grand way.”
Bob felt himself blushing in the dark. Praise from Bill was rare and much sought after. “Aw,” he said, “it wasn’t anything.”
“It was a good yarn,” said Bill, emphatically.
“If it was a good yarn, then he’s your nephew, all right,” said Mrs. Martin. “There was never anybody like you for yarning. And good ones, too.”
Captain Bill laughed, and took another cookie. “If I can tell stories the way you bake cookies—”