And so it was that Florence found her grandfather, and at once a whole new wonderful life opened up for her.
CHAPTER XI
THE FRESH-DOUGH CLUB
“Such a delicious odor!” Florence exclaimed. With the prompt reactions of buoyant youth, she made herself at home in her grandfather’s cabin. Now, being hungry, she began sniffing the air.
“Mulligan stew,” the old man explained. “It’s done to a turn. Never a better one made. Prime young reindeer meat, bacon, evaporated potatoes, fresh onions, a spoonful of dried eggs, a pound of red beans, pepper, salt, fresh seal oil. Guess that’s about all there is in it. Hungry?” he smiled down at her.
“I’m always hungry,” Florence smiled.
Taking a huge bowl from the cupboard in the corner, Tom Kennedy filled it to the brim. Into an equally huge cup was poured steaming black coffee. “We’re healthy up here,” he explained. “We can take it straight.”
“So can I,” Florence gulped down a burning draught.
“Um—um,” she breathed a moment later as she tasted the stew. “I can cook a little, but not like that.”
“It comes,” said the old man, his words slow and melodious, “comes with time. I’ve been in the North thirty-five years.” The expression on his face changed. His thoughts, Florence told herself, must be far away.
She tried to read those thoughts, to discover whether they had to do with his boyhood days and his frail, child-wife who had died long ago, or with gray mountains, long trails, whirling snow and the lost mine.