“They have television here,” Sandy said.
“Yes,” Superintendent MacKensie admitted, “but it’s pretty limited compared to what you Americans can see.”
The boys were intrigued by the heavy, thick flapjacks that Frenchy the cook served with thick slabs of bacon.
“They taste different than what my maw makes,” Jerry commented. “Sort of sour.” Then, with an apologetic glance at the big, bushy-headed cook, “But I love ’em.”
Superintendent MacKensie’s eyes twinkled. “You may not believe it,” he said, “but the fermented yeast dough that went into these flapjacks is over sixty years old.”
Jerry choked in the middle of a bite and swallowed hard. “Sixty years old! You’re kidding, sir?”
“Not in the least. It was handed down to Frenchy by his father, who was a gold prospector up in the Yukon in the eighteen-nineties.”
“Wow!” Jerry laid down his fork. “Talk about hoarders.”
Dr. Steele laughed. “Sourdough, of course. Those old prospectors got their nickname from it. You boys have heard of sourdoughs, haven’t you?”
“Sure,” Jerry admitted. “I just never knew where the name came from.”