He seated himself in the middle of it and paddled and spattered in great glee.
The calf pen took longer to fix than Jack had expected, and as he neared the house he heard the clock striking twelve, and, looking fieldward, he saw his wife coming to dinner.
“Jumping Jupiter! what will she say?” was his mental comment. “But she will soon fix things, I’ll bet.”
As he entered the kitchen what a sight met his gaze. The room was dark with smoke from burned prunes, the table piled full of unwashed pans and dishes. The cream. Heavens, the cream! The dead chicken lay in the middle of the floor and the pit-basket was upset, as Toodles had left it for the pan baby. The open-mouthed churn stared at him.
Mr. Telfer opened the oven door; his pie was a black mass.
“I can see now why women sit down and cry sometimes. I’m blessed if I don’t feel like it myself,” he said.
Toodles, drenched but happy, called from the middle of his cream puddle, “High me, papa; high me.”
Mrs. Telfer called out as she passed the house: “Hello! Dinner ready? I’m awful hungry.” But her husband was not visible.
She had enjoyed her morning’s work and was in excellent spirits. She watered and fed the team, then started for the house. The novelty of the situation amused her. She expected Jack would have some surprise ready, some extra dish for dinner, the table decorated with flowers or, perhaps, be tricked out in one of her white aprons with his hair curled and a pink ribbon around his neck to show how a wife should greet her husband.