“Why, it’s good!” said Winona, rather impolitely, having sampled it on its way.
“Of course it’s good!” said Billy serenely. “Didn’t I ever tell you about our old cook down south, and how I adored her? I used to tag round after her all the time when I was small—never would stay with my nurse—and I learned a lot of things. And seeing I’m going to be invited to this banquet, looks like I’d better make the ice-cream for you.”
“Oh, can you?”
“Watch me!” said Billy for all answer.
As a matter of fact, when Tom got back with the blue-points and the cream, he and Billy went to work together, and they compounded a pineapple ice-cream that was fit for the gods. Louise, meanwhile, stuffed the parboiled fowl and put him in to roast. The boys captured Clay, who had gone back to his cellar door and his songs, and set him to crushing ice. Winona sat down on the tubs where Billy had been, and gave herself up to deep thought. The entree had not yet been solved.
“Pancake batter?” she said aloud at last, in a mildly conversational tone.
“I’m sure of it,” said Billy, poking his head in from the back porch.
“If I take that pancake batter I got ready for to-morrow morning, sweeten it, and put butter and eggs and peaches in it, I don’t see why it wouldn’t be peach fritters. Anyway I can try ... then you drop them in the lard....”
She thought it over a little longer silently. Then she jumped down, and went into the cellar for the batter and the peaches, and brought them out on the back porch, near the ice-box, to experiment with. Tom had gone back to the pantry to see if there was cake enough, but Billy was still packing ice and salt around the ice-cream.
“Dear me!” said Winona, setting down her load on a low shelf. “I hate to see you doing all this. You’re company, you know, and here we’re letting you get a lot of the dinner. It worries me!”