Harry looked troubled, failing to see the smile which quivered around the corners of Roy’s mouth.
“I—I’m afraid I can’t make an omelet, Roy,” she said dejectedly. “You see, they always get burned on the bottom; and then I never can flop them over. You know they have to be flopped over?” Roy nodded sympathetically.
“I always flop them before I cook them,” said Chub sententiously.
“How can you?” asked Harry, indignantly. “I never heard of anything so—so—”
“Why, you—er—you seize the egg between the thumb and first finger,” answered Chub, frowning intensely as though striving to recollect the process. “Then you slowly exert sufficient pressure to choke it to death. When nicely choked—”
Just here Dick pushed him off the steps.
“Isn’t he the silliest thing?” asked Harry. And then, returning to the subject of omelets: “But I could get mama to show me how, Roy.”
“What I want to know is,” said Chub as he crawled back up the steps, “is where all the eggs are coming from. I can eat three myself when I’m in camp, and you know what an appetite Dickums has!”
“We’ll hire a hen,” suggested Roy.