There was a grand consultation immediately after breakfast as to the proceedings of the day, and here it must be confessed Chaos once more mounted his throne, and held a most determined sway.
After ten minutes of babel, Marjorie suddenly squatted herself on the floor, and began to write furiously.
This was her programme: "Rush upstairs and dress as fast as possible—don't be long on account of keeping the carriages waiting. Put on our oldest, but we must be neat on account of father not liking dirty hands, and smuts on the top of the nose, and smears anywhere—we had better wear our best, perhaps—tumble into the carts and carriages and wagons, and drive to Bee's Head, that's ten miles away. Eric wants to go, the others don't; Lucy and I are for Salter's Point, on account of the shells, and that's in the other direction. I think it's quite eleven miles. Ermengarde votes for the Deep Woods, although I hate midges. Well, we'll all go somewhere, and we'll take every scrap of food that the house holds, even if there is to be a famine afterward; well, perhaps we oughtn't to take every scrap, for the servants at home will be hungry, and we'll want supper ourselves; we'll be starving for it, I expect. Eric says the ferrets must come with us, for they ought to have fun like the rest of us on father's birthday, particularly Shark, who has a great sense of humor. Ermie is nearly crying, for she's afraid Shark will bite her, and Basil is winking at her, and trying to comfort her, and he's frowning at Eric with the other side of his mouth, and Eric is putting out the tip of his tongue when he thinks no one is looking at him, which is vulgar, even though it is father's birthday. What was I saying? I do get cramped and mixed, huddled up on the floor, scribbling. We're to go for a long drive, to Bee's Head, or somewhere, and the horses and the carriages and the servants and the ferrets and the children and father and all the food are to come too, and we are to have a great ball—no, that's in the evening—and supper, and the fireworks will go off. Dear, dear, where are the fireworks to be squeezed? it's a most confusing sort of day."
"Maggie!" suddenly exclaimed Basil.
She raised a flushed face.
"What are you doing, huddled up on the floor like a ball; and what's that queer squiggly bit of paper in your hand?—it looks all over hieroglyphics. Here, I must see!" he snatched at the paper, held it aloft, and read Marjorie's programme aloud amid the roars of the company.
"I was only trying to make what we said less confusing," answered Marjorie. "I was getting it down as hard as I could, and I said I was mixed; anyone else would have been mixed too, I think."
"I should rather think they would," said Basil. "So that's the nonsense we have been talking all this time. Thank you, Maggie, for showing us ourselves. Now, sir," here Basil turned round and addressed his father. Mr. Wilton looked at him with the greatest admiration; he felt years younger than his son at the moment.
"Now, sir," proceeded Basil, "we cannot go to Bee's Head, and Salter's Point, and the Deep Woods all in the same morning, as the three places happen to be in totally different directions, and as each of them also happens to be from ten to twelve miles from here. We must make a choice, and we must abide by it. It's your birthday, father, and you ought to choose. Which shall it be?"
"Thank you, my boy, but I would not have the responsibility of a choice for the world—I don't feel equal to it. You young folks must make the selection among you."