“And be waited upon by six willing slaves,” added Polly.
“And be fed on canned corned beef and tomato stew,” laughed Bell.
“Not a bit of it,” said Margery. “Hop Yet is a splendid cook, if he has anything to cook, and we’ll feed her on broiled tidbits of baby venison, goat’s milk, wild bees’ honey, and cunning little mourning doves, roasted on a spit.”
“Good gracious,” cried Bell, “what angels’ food! only I would as soon devour a pet canary as a mourning dove. But to think that I’ve been trying to diet for a week in order to get intimate with suffering and privation! Polly came to stay with me one night, and we slept on the floor, with only a blanket under us, and no pillow; it was perfectly horrid. Polly dreamed that her grandfather ate up her grandmother, and I that Dicky stabbed the Jersey calf with a pickle-fork.”
“Horrors!” ejaculated Margery; “that’s a pleasant prospect for your future bedfellows. I hope the gophers won’t make you nervous, gnawing and scratching in the straw; I got used to them last summer. But we really must go, darling,” and she stooped to kiss Elsie good-bye.
“Well, I suppose you ought,” she answered. “But remember you are to start from this gate; Aunt Truth has promised me the fun of seeing you out of sight.”
The girls went out at a side door, and joined the boys, who were busily at work cleaning their guns on the broad western porch.
“How are you coming on?” questioned Polly.
“Oh, finely,” answered Jack, who always constituted himself chief spokesman, unless driven from the rostrum by some one possessed of a nimbler tongue. “I only hope your feminine togs are in half as good order.”
“We take no baggage to speak of,” said Bell, loftily. “Papa has cut us down to the very last notch, and says the law allows very few pounds on this trip.”