“They’re dreadfully small,” grumbled Joel, who thought it a great waste. “You might have given them to Dave and me.”
“For shame, Joel!” said Polly; “you couldn’t ever have eaten them unless Ben had pared them. O dear me, they are small,” her face falling, “but I guess they’ll be good.”
“I’m sure they will,” said Jasper, “and, Polly, they’ll be so cunning on the plate. Do put them on the blue one that is up in the cupboard there.” He nodded his head over to the corner where the few best dishes were kept.
“Oh, we couldn’t take that down, Jasper,” said Polly, quickly, “not unless Mamsie says we may.”
“And if you don’t hurry and get those biscuits in the oven, you can’t put them on any plate,” broke in Ben, wisely.
“That’s so,” laughed Jasper. So Polly started again with her tin plate of little lumps of dough. And the oven door was flung wide, and in they slipped, and then the door banged, good and hard, and all they had to do was to bake as nicely as possible till they were a lovely brown.
“Oh, I hope they’ll be good,” said Polly, anxiously coming back to the table to oversee operations.
“Oh, I guess they will,” said Ben, comfortingly.
“I can’t do anything with mine, Polly,” said Jasper, patting and punching the lumps of dough in his hand at a great rate. “It sticks dreadfully,—see there! It’s in no end of a mess.”
“That’s because you want some more flour on your fingers,” said Polly, holding out the little bowl in which was a sprinkling of flour for just that very purpose; “there, Jasper, stick them in.”