"They're out yonder in the woods," Mrs. Irving replied, indicating a spot beyond the cottage. "They were up very early this morning—couldn't wait to get the tents up. Allen left word that they would stop around in a couple of hours to say good-afternoon to you girls—if you happened to be up by that time," and the little chaperon's eyes twinkled as she saw the look of rising indignation in the girls' faces.
"If we happen to be up, indeed," sniffed Betty, bustling around the kitchen in a business-like fashion, sorting out pans and getting out the flour, which Mollie's aunt had very thoughtfully left in the larder. "If they talk like that much more, they won't get any of my biscuits. Just wait till they smell them, girls—they will go down on their knees."
"Yes, the only way to manage boys is to feed them well," sighed Amy, with a funny air of knowing all there was to be known about men.
"Oh, Amy! Amy!" gasped Mollie, "you will be the death of me yet. Anybody would actually think, to hear you talk, that you had really had some experience. Say, Betty," she added, regarding the doughy mixture—the result of Betty's skillful manipulation, "that looks mighty interesting—I shouldn't mind learning how to make them myself."
"Oh, it's lots of fun," Betty affirmed, cutting out the biscuits with an improvised cutter—this last being the top of a baking powder can. "Only take my advice," she went on, standing with the cover poised in the air and speaking earnestly. "Don't try it on your family first—they never appreciate you. Why, the first time I made biscuits, do you know what dad said?"
"No, but I can imagine," said Grace, who had also been regarding the operation, "judging from what dad and Will would have remarked."
"Well, he said," Betty continued, patting the last biscuit into its appointed place and regarding her work with satisfaction, "he said the best thing I could do with them would be to pack them and send them to the old country to use in some of the new howitzers or something like that they are getting out. How is that for a slam?"
"Well, I shouldn't wonder," said Grace wickedly, "if he were justified."
Betty turned and shot a reproachful glance at her friend. "Just for that, Grace," she said, "I ought to say you can't have any of these—works of art," indicating the pan she was putting into the oven. "Why do you girls stand around staring at me anyway?" she added, a sudden note of impatience in her voice. "Why don't you do something to earn your living? Set the table or get the water boiling for the eggs. I can't do everything—now scatter! If you were all as hungry as I am you wouldn't wait to be told."
Laughingly the girls did as the Little Captain bid—somehow it was impossible to do anything else.