But his eyes were rivetted on the old Staffordshire platter that held the refreshments. He nudged Mr. Ashby and both men eagerly took the dish. As they gazed at it, and then passed it on to the ladies to help themselves first, they exchanged opinions.
“It’s the rare old blue that seems etched on the ivory glaze,” whispered Mr. Fabian.
“Where that came from, there may be more,” added Mr. Ashby, eagerly.
The platter had reached Mr. Alexander on its return trip to the men, when the little man took two doughnuts, one in each hand.
“Ebeneezer Alexander! How can you? Don’t you know what your red book says?” scolded his wife.
“I dun’t care, Maggie! I’m good and hongry and dunnits always was my temptation. These smell like your’n ust to before we got too rich for you to cook.”
Mrs. Alexander tried to hide the smile of satisfaction that tried to creep up into her face. She reached out her hand for one of his doughnuts, without saying a word. But Mr. Alexander moved away out of her reach.
He hurriedly held at arm’s length the hand that held one doughnut, while he took several great bites from the tidbit held in the other hand, lest his wife compel him to give up his treasure trove. The others laughed at him, and Mr. Ashby said:
“I don’t blame you, Mr. Alex. If our wives would cook, as once they did, we wouldn’t have to act so childishly when we travel.”
The platter was emptied and when the farmer’s wife turned to go back to her work, Mr. Fabian and Mr. Ashby insisted upon carrying the pail and dipper, to the amazement of those in the car. Polly understood and nudged Eleanor to follow, too.