The clock pounded out eleven strokes.
“Blast that clock; what’s got into it,” thought the man, putting the child down and hurrying to the kitchen. “I’ve been busy every minute this morning, and here it is 11 o’clock and not a thing done yet.”
He found the fire had burned out; he had forgotten to put the peach pits on the kindling when he had stopped to fuss with Toodles.
“Well, I guess I’ll make it all right by noon,” he soliloquized. “This is a hurry-up order, but I’ll be on time or eat my hat.”
He looked at his pie; it was nearly half baked. He built a roaring fire, packed the stove with peach pits, pulled the prunes to the front where they would cook quicker, and was debating in his mind which he should scald first, the churn or the chicken, when something rushed by the door.
“Drat those calves; they’re out again.”
Snatching his hat, he hurried after them. It was a merry chase for the calves if not for Mr. Telfer. They were willing to go in any direction but the right one, and by the time he got them corralled Jack was hot, tired and cross.
When Toodles was left alone he started out on a tour of inspection. The first objects of interest were the dead chicken and the peach-pit basket, but his attention was soon detracted from these by the bright pan that held the cream; it had been pushed to the edge of the table. As Toodles approached it he saw the reflection of a chubby baby face on the outside.
“Baby,” said Toodles. He smiled and the pan baby smiled, and he concluded that the pan must be full of pretty, smiling babies, and he wanted them to play with. He could just get his little fingers over the edge of the pan. He pulled and tugged with all his might to get the pan baby down.
He succeeded, for the pan toppled over and deluged the immaculate Toodles with thick, yellow cream. His pretty curls were filled with chunks of oily coagulation, and cream ran in rivulets down his little back and bosom.