“Yes, baking powder! B-A-K-I-N-G P-O-W-D-E-R! Do I make myself plain?”
“Oh, baking powder, to be sure. Well, now that you mention the matter, I do remember that Dicky called me away just as I was getting it; and now that I think of it, Elsie came just afterwards, and—and—”
“And that’s the whole of my story, O,” sang Jack. “I recommend the criminal to the mercy of the court.”
“A case of too many cooks,” laughed Dr. Winship. “Cheer up, girls; better fortune next time.”
“There are eight more of them burning on the griddles this moment, Polly,” said Bell, scathingly; “and as they are yours, not mine, I advise you to throw them in the brook, with the rest of the batter, so that Hop Yet won’t know that there has been a failure.”
“Some people blight everything they touch,” sighed Polly, gloomily, as she departed for the kitchen.
“But when I lie in the green kirkyard—
“Oh, Polly, dear,” interrupted Margery, “that apology will not serve any longer; you’ve used it too often.”
“This is going to be entirely different,” continued Polly, tragically.
“But when I lie in the green kirkyard,
With the mould upon my breast,
Say not that she made flapjacks well,
Only, she did her best.”