“You wouldn’t think a quart of water could be so heavy,” panted Jelly. “You see, you have to hold it like this or it runs out the spout. That makes it awkward, doesn’t it?”
“Decidedly,” answered Evan. “I don’t know whether I can get it up there myself without losing most of it.”
But he did finally, and a minute or two later the coffee was “on the stove.” Jelly was pretty well fagged out and they made him lie down and rest. From the frying-pan came a heartening sizzle and, now and then, a fragrant whiff.
“May I cook my chops next?” asked Jelly.
“You may not,” Malcolm replied. “You just lie there on your silly back. I’ll cook them for you. You can start in on the steak, though, while they’re frying. Wonder if those potatoes are ready to come out.”
“Well, if I’d been in there as long as they have,” said Evan, “I’m sure I’d be ready to come out! Want me to help you?”
“Yes, will you? Get a long stick and poke around for them. But don’t get too near the coffee-pot, whatever you do!”
“No, Evan, if you upset that coffee-pot we will descend upon you and rend you limb from limb,” threatened Rob. “I’m so thirsty now that I could drink suds. Are these tin cups all the same size, Mal?”
“Of course. Why?”
“I was going to pick out the biggest one,” sighed Rob. “How are the potatoes, Evan?”