“Mine’s as tough as all get-out!” grunted Dudley.
“Say, what is this slice, anyway?” asked Fred, frowning.
Mose appeared with a plate of hot biscuits and the puzzled boys appealed to him in injured tones; Dudley especially emphatic in his demonstration of the toughness of his portion.
“Why, look, Mose, it’s like a brick-bat!”
“Don’ you-all knows yu’ own spechul brand o’ fish-steak? Ah b’lieve yuh boys caint rekernise dat mola when you’se see him!” And the chef’s tones sounded plaintive.
“Mose!” came a horrified chorus as plates were pushed away.
“There now, I knew it had a bad smell!” cried Paul.
“But hain’t he nice an’ tendered up now,” continued the wicked cook, innocently. “Cap’n an’ me didn’ have no trouble a-tall cuttin’ them slabs dis mawnin’. No suh! dat fish, he hed some sof’nin’ influence a-wohkin on him, come all dis time he’d ben voyagin’ up an’ down dat bay—ebb an’ flood!”
But Fred noticed that neither his father or mother seemed disturbed at these truly awful disclosures by Mose, so he began to investigate his slab of so-called mola.
“Boys,” cried he exultantly, as he exhibited a flat piece of wood, now scraped clear of fried cornmeal, “the Yanks who make nutmegs of wood aren’t in it with our Mose!”