She did not look up. “Don't bother the table maid,” she observed, briskly. “That fire is not kindled yet.”
I lit the fire and, going over to the bushes, selected two of the fish, a bass and a pickerel. I carried them down to the shore of the pond and began cleaning them, using my jacknife and a flat stone. I was nearing the end of the operation when she came over to watch.
“Why are you doing that?” she asked. “You are not going to cook them—now—are you?”
“I am going to try,” I replied.
“But how? You haven't anything to cook them in.”
“I don't need it. You don't appreciate the conveniences of this hotel, Miss Colton. There! now we're ready.”
I rose, washed my hands in the pond, and picked up two other flat stones, large ones, which I had previously put aside. These I carried to the fire and, raking aside the burning logs with a stick, laid the stones in a bed of hot coals.
“Those are our frying pans,” I informed her. “When they are hot enough they will cook the fish. At least, I hope they will. Now for the coffee.”
But she waved me aside. “The coffee is my affair,” she said. “I insist upon making the coffee. Oh, you need not look at me like that. I am not altogether useless. I studied Domestic Science—a little—in my prep school course. As much as I studied anything else,” laughingly.
“But—”