The Kid held his tough little body down, and wept copiously.
Barbara tried sternness. “Charles, get up this minute,” she commanded, “and tell me what is the matter.”
The Kid lifted a woe-begone face to his sister.
“She’s gone,” he said, “and we can’t ever have any more beefsteak, or lamb with gravy.”
“Was that what you were crying for?” asked Barbara, coldly. “Charles, I am disgusted with you. Now you get up and wash your hands, and dinner will soon be ready.”
She sighed as she carried in the salmon, extracted from the hole in the can in minute sections, so that it resembled a pile of sawdust rather than the body of a fish. She found herself wishing that it had been possible to reconcile her desires and Mrs. Harris’s commands.
It was a melancholy family that partook of the pulverized fish, fried potatoes, bread, butter, and bananas, which constituted Barbara’s effort.
“Oh dear!” sighed Jack, as he took his seat. “Variety is the spice of life; we certainly have that, so I suppose you think we don’t care for the other spices, having left the pepper-cellar in the pantry. I always did like pepper on fried potatoes.”
David lifted his large blue eyes and let them rest on his elder sister.
“You must be like Cinderella’s sisters,” he said reflectively. “Had such an awful temper,—couldn’t anybody live with ’em.”