The girls just couldn't speak, they were laughing so hard. Two of them were trying to pluck the feathers out of a couple of chickens, and by that I knew the worst hadn't happened. But they weren't paying much attention to their work; they were just bending backward and forward and screaming.
"L—l—look at him!" Grace Bentley just blurted out; "it's too excruciating!"
I said, "Pee-wee, don't ever quote the handbook to me again. 'A scout is kind.' You have deliberately murdered that poor omelet. Don't ever say you don't believe in frightfulness."
"You make me tired!" he yelled. "Didn't you tell me the way to flip—flop—didn't you say to catch—didn't you say to toss—graceful——"
"I said to toss it up gracefully," I told him, "and to let it turn over in the air and then to catch it inside the pan. But tell me this, please, so I can die in peace; what are you doing with the curling iron?"
"He was going to open—he was going to open—a—a—can," the girl they called Billie said, all the while trying not to laugh; "oh, dear me!"
"He wanted us to cut the chicken up to fr—fr—fr—fr—fry!" Grace Bentley screamed.
"Oh, he's a regular cut-up," Connie told her.
"He sm—sm—ashed the potatoes so they—oh, just look at them!" one of the others managed to blurt out.
The kettle full of mashed potatoes looked as if a bomb had fallen into it; there were gobs of mashed potatoes all around on the trees and ground for about ten feet. It looked like a snowstorm.