“Ain’t you goin’ to baste that fowl at all?” he inquired sharply.
Dale started guiltily at the reminder and hastened to the oven. The fowl was browning nicely, and as he spooned up the sizzling juices, he hoped his forgetfulness wasn’t going to make any difference in its flavor.
Apparently it hadn’t. After a number of anxious inspections, between which he set the table for two, put plates to heat, and arranged the remaining contents of the basket as temptingly as he could, he decided that the chicken was done, and Mr. Grimstone, peering doubtfully into the oven and even testing the fowl with a fork, grudgingly agreed. When the old man was served and his portion cut up so that he could manage it with a fork, Dale took his first taste with a little feeling of pride in his culinary achievement.
It was really a very appetizing meal, and the scout enjoyed it as only a healthy, hungry boy can. Mr. Grimstone made no comment one way or another. Once or twice he mumbled his annoyance at having to have his meat cut up for him by a boy, but the number of times that the process was repeated and the relish with which he consumed everything in sight was proof enough of his satisfaction in the unwonted fare.
As the curious meal proceeded to its conclusion he seemed almost to thaw a little. His manner was still crabbed and his voice sharp. He scowled a good deal, too, especially after some comment which might possibly be taken as approaching the amiable. But in one way or another, both at table and later while the dishes were being done up, he asked a good many questions in his short, snappy fashion.
Dale answered them readily, vaguely sensing, perhaps, that under the old man’s surface crustiness lay a certain awkwardness at handling so unaccustomed a situation. After all these years of bitter warfare against boys it must be rather embarrassing, he thought, to treat one of them with even an approach to civility. So when he had told his name, and the troop he belonged to, and one or two other details the old man asked about, Dale went on to explain a little about their scout work and play, their weekly meetings and drill and other duties, their hikes and week-end camping-trips.
The old man listened almost without comment. He seemed more curious about the principle of the daily good turn, to which he reverted several times, always with expressions of doubt and skepticism. The idea of mere boys giving time and labor and sacrificing inclination and pleasure without thought of reward was incredible to him.
“It ain’t natural!” he declared at last. “Mebbe one or two might, but not many. You can’t tell me any other o’ them young limbs in town would of give up their holiday to tote a basket o’ truck out here an’ cook it.”
“Oh, yes, they would!” protested the boy, loyally, “if they’d thought of it.”
“Humph!” grunted the old man. “They didn’t happen to, though.”