“That’s true,” said his father gravely, putting a pile of buttered quarter-sections on his son’s plate. “At least, nobody who hadn’t seen it would believe you could eat so many flapjacks and not explode!”
Everyone laughed; but Tom calmly went on eating.
“They’re awfully good, mother,” he said. “I’ll tell you, Winnie, if you could learn to make as good flapjacks as mother with your Fire Camping, as Florence calls it, you’d be doing something worth while.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose there’s anything about flapjacks in it—do you think there could be, Helen?” asked Winnie.
Mrs. Merriam laughed a little.
“Well, do you know, my dears,” she said, “I have a strange feeling that there is!”
“I don’t see how,” doubted Winona. “But maybe, if I get time, Tom, I’ll learn how to make them. Come on, Helen, let’s go back to Nannie and ask her all the questions we can think of.”
The two girls ran out hand-in-hand.
“Are there flapjacks in it, mother?” asked little Florence.
Mrs. Merriam laughed again as she began to clear the table.