“It’s a duck,” answered Billie, desperately stirring the kettle of vegetables.
“Duck?” they shouted in a loud chorus.
“There never was a duck on land or sea that looked like that.”
“Where are its legs?”
“Was it a winged duck?”
“Perhaps it’s a species of wingless, legless mountain duck, unknown to low countries?”
“Well, if you must know,” cried Billie, now very hot and red over the fire, and wishing devoutly that that brutally truthful speech about watched pots had never been made, “if you demand the truth, it’s mock duck——”
“It sounds like the name of a Chinese laundry-man,” put in Percy.
“Made by a famous Southern recipe. We didn’t know it would take so long to cook.” She was ashamed to mention the potatoes and onions. “If you are all so famished, you might start on the bread and butter.”
Instantly they gathered around the table and Percy passed around the bread tray. From bread they turned to the salad of tomatoes and cucumbers. Lettuce did not seem to flourish in that country. They drank the ginger ale and ate all the olives, and still the spurious fowl remained a mockery to cooks. It sent forth rivulets of juices and made a great to do over the fire, like people who are all promises and talk and no action, but it would not get done. Then the doctor slipped away and presently returned with his contribution to the supper. He had made it in the morning and it had been standing in the ice chest all day.