Gwen was a born cook and the domestic science that had been so ably taught in the Mission School had developed her talent wonderfully. She had turned up two empty boxes and smoothed some wrapping paper over them. A bunch of mountain laurel glorified an old soup can and made a beautiful centre piece. The coffee was hot and clear and strong; the hoecake brown and crisp on the outside and soft and creamy within, just as a hoecake should be; the bacon vied with the hoecake in crispness, with no pieces limp and none burned. She had opened a can of baked beans and another of spaghetti, carefully following the directions on the cans as how to serve the contents.
“Well, don’t this beat all?” said Bill as he sank down by the improvised table.
“But you must come and eat with us, you and Josh,” insisted Lewis.
“Oh, no, the table isn’t big enough, and, besides, I must go on baking hoecakes.”
“Well, Josh, you come, anyhow.”
“No, sir, thanky! We uns will wait for Gwen. We uns ain’t fitten to sit down with the likes of you uns, all dirty with we uns’ meat a-stickin’ through the rags.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Lewis, “if you are fit to sit with Miss Gwen, you are fit to sit with us. We don’t mind your meat sticking through, and as for being dirty—why don’t you wash?”
Gwen gave a laugh of delight. “There now, Josh, what do I tell you all the time? Rags don’t make a bit of difference if you are just clean.”
“Wal, we uns’ll eat with Josephus if we uns has to wash. This ain’t no time of the week for washin’.” But while the young men were enjoying the very appetizing food, Josh did sneak off to the stream and came back with his face and hands several shades fairer.