Farren was eager to help, but his offers were firmly refused, and he was ordered to make himself comfortable by the fire while the others got busy.
“Of course, if you see anything being done wrong, you can draw our attention to it,” said Jim Cavanaugh, his eyes twinkling. “A fellow can’t remember everything all the time.”
“I guess you’ll remember more than I should,” laughed Farren. “What I don’t know about cooking would fill a large volume.”
“We’re none of us experts,” admitted Cavvy. “Still, I reckon we’ll make out somehow.”
In spite of his modesty, the work went forward in a businesslike manner which betokened either uncommon culinary skill, or a good deal of expert advice obtained beforehand. Farren drew up a chair to one side of the blaze and watched everything interestedly, keeping up a running fire of joke and comment with the cooks and their helpers. Once or twice he got up and strolled about the room, admiring the furnishings and decorations, and each time a scout or two accompanied him to make sure he missed no special feature.
But gradually the interest centered around the fireplace. The fire had been allowed to die down and a thick bed of glowing coals raked forward to accommodate the various cooking operations which were going forward in every available corner of the wide stone hearth. Sweet potatoes boiled merrily in one receptacle; onions in another. From a heavy iron crane above them hung a large and ample kettle, a trickle of steam rising from its spout. These, however, were minor details of the banquet, interesting as accessories, but of no real importance compared with the principal dish which occupied the center of the stage and absorbed the anxious attention of the entire assemblage.
In the middle of the hearth stood a heavy iron grate supporting a large tin oven. Cavanaugh, and Steve Haddon, who was in from Washington for a week, squatted before it, each holding an iron poker with which, at frequent intervals, they raked forward fresh coals to replenish the heap beneath the grate. And at intervals almost as frequent one or the other opened the oven door to peer within. Their movements were followed anxiously by every scout not otherwise fully occupied, and there was no lack of advice from the many onlookers. This was received by the two cooks with contemptuous jeers, but there was, nevertheless, a slight touch of tension in their manner, a decided caution of movement, a keen attention to details. For in that oven, trussed, stuffed already delicately browning, reposed—the turkey!
“Mother wanted us to have it cooked at home and just warm it up in the cabin,” explained Cavvy to Farren with a touch of scorn. “But, gee! What’s the use of having a turkey if you can’t smell it cooking!”
“There’s nothing like it,” agreed the soldier, sniffing the air appreciatively. “Doesn’t it make you hungry, though?”
“You’ve said it!” came in unison from several lips.