She completed her arrangements, though it was rather messy work, especially the clay covering, but finally she finished and the lump of "mud," as Alameda called it, was put to bake in the fire hole, hot ashes and embers being piled on top.
"Dat's de craziest notion whut I eber hearn tell on," grumbled Alameda to Zeb. "I'se gwine cook do odder fish in mah own style."
"I guess mebby as how yo' better had," he agreed.
Preparations for the evening meal went on, while Captain Clark and her True Treds tidied themselves after the fishing excursion. Cleo was ready first and took a little run down to where her fire smouldered in the pit.
"How do you tell when it's done?" asked Grace, joining her. "You can't stick a straw in through that clay as you stick a splint in a cake."
"No," admitted Cleo, "but I guess it must be ready now. The book says it doesn't take more than an hour before the fish is baked to a turn, whatever that is."
The four girls stood about the fire hole, wondering how Cleo's experiment would succeed. Captain Clark joined them. She was just going to suggest that perhaps the process was completed, when suddenly there was a loud explosion in the hole.
Up in the air flew blazing and half-burned sticks, ashes and portions of a clay ball, mingled with something white, in flakes.
"Look out!" cried Margaret. But there was no need. All the girls ducked for cover.
"What—what was it?" asked Grace, when the shower of ashes and embers was over, without any casualties.