“The traveller was a sensible man,” said Bruin. “Did you make up that story, Toto?”
“Yes,” replied Toto. “I made it up the other day,—one of those rainy days. I found a forked radish in the bunch we had for tea, and it had a kind of nose, and looked just like a funny little red man. So I thought that if there was a radish that looked like a man, there might be a man that looked like a radish, you see. And now—”
“Ahem!” said the raccoon softly. “Did you say five minutes for refreshments, Toto, or did I misunderstand you?” and he winked at the company in a very expressive manner.
Toto ran to get the gingerbread; and for some time sounds of crunching and nibbling were the only ones that were heard, except the constant “click, click,” of the grandmother’s needles. Bruin sat for some time watching in silence the endless crossing and re-crossing of the shining bits of steel. Presently he said in a timid growl,—
“Excuse me, ma’am; do you make the gingerbread with those things?”
“With what things, Mr. Bruin?” asked the grandmother.
“Those bright things that go clickety-clack,” said the bear. “I see some soft brown stuff on them, just about the color of the gingerbread, and I thought possibly—”
“Oh,” said the grandmother, smiling, “you mean my knitting. No, Mr. Bruin, gingerbread is made in a very different way. I mix it in a bowl, with a spoon, and then I put it in a pan, and bake it in the oven. Do you understand?”
Poor Bruin rubbed his nose, and looked helplessly at Coon. The latter, however, merely grinned diabolically at him, and said nothing; so he was obliged to answer the grandmother himself.