He drew forth a number of sharp steel knives and distributed them among the guests.
“The old woman and I will show you first how to peel the oranges,” he said, “and then just fall to and help yourselves. You can eat all you want and don’t be afraid they will make you sick. They never do. They are very much like rattlesnakes, I think. They won’t strike you unless you are afraid of them.”
After a few trials they learned to reverse the peeling on the orange and draw it down to one end like a handle. The proper way to eat the orange was to bite into it as if it were an apple.
They never knew how many oranges they consumed that day. Most of them lost count after the fourth or fifth. They even lost sight of each other and wandered about in the beautiful grove like a band of greedy sleep walkers.
“I declare,” exclaimed Billie at last, coming out of her absorption long enough to squeeze Mrs. Duffy’s plump waist and smile into her face, “we are just a lot of butchers stabbing fruit to death.”
“I don’t wonder you never stay here for any length of time, Mrs. Duffy,” said Timothy Peppercorn. “The smell of these blossoms and the fruit have hypnotized me already. I can’t remember who I am. I feel that I am rapidly becoming an orange.”
“Or a mock orange, perhaps,” suggested Nancy.
“No, the real thing. I’m a genuine Florida orange, a delicious concoction of juice and pulp——”
“Not much pulp, Timothy, my son,” interrupted Mr. Duffy. “You must lay on a little before you leave Florida. But what about lunch, my dear?”
“Lunch?” gasped Miss Helen Campbell, who had retired to a bench and was leaning back exhausted. “How can you mention the word?”