“The water comes from the top of the mountain,” announced Billie. “It’s just piped in and doesn’t have to be pumped. Think of bathing in such clear pure water as that. Oh, I know camping like this will be perfect!”
“It may and it may not be,” observed Miss Campbell, bathing her hands and face in some of the crystal water. “Good heavens, what’s that?” she demanded, startled by the sound of a bugle in the twilight stillness. The call was loud and clear, reverberating among the mountains and coming back to them in a softened, muffled echo.
“That’s Mr. Lupo blowing the supper horn,” called Mr. Campbell from the sleeping porch below. Down they all filed and seated themselves anywhere around a long rustic table apparently loaded with food, for all the meal had been placed upon it regardless of ceremony, and people were expected to help themselves.
“Fall to, fall to, ladies,” said Mr. Campbell, serving slices of broiled ham until the pile of plates in front of him was reduced to one.
“Let’s introduce scientific management into this business,” suggested Billie. “With one deft movement of the arm, I’ll help each plate to creamed potatoes, passing them along in order to Nancy, who can dish out the baked omelette. While we are doing that Mary can serve the butter and Elinor can pass around the biscuits. There is no labor wasted and the food is distributed in the quickest possible time.”
“What shall I be doing?” asked Miss Campbell. “I don’t see that I am being scientifically managed.”
“Yes you are,” answered Mr. Campbell with a mischievous glance at the pretty little lady. “You are being scientifically managed by not being allowed to do anything.”
There was a chorus of drowsy, good-natured laughter. The leavening influence of food at a journey’s end was already beginning to take effect. Presently Mr. Lupo came in with a tray of cups and saucers and a pot of steaming hot coffee, and Mrs. Lupo, silent and soft of foot, placed four tall wooden candlesticks on the table, the light from the tallow candles shedding a yellow glow on their faces.
“Excuse me,” said Mary, rising, after the hungry company had cleared up everything before them, “I want to go to the end of the room and see what we look like. I feel as if we were making a picture somebody ought to see. We are,” she called presently from the far end of the vast apartment. “You’ve no idea how picturesque you look around that dark wooden table with those candles and the blue water pitcher and the pewter coffee pot.”
“And the empty omelette dish,” called Billie.