“It’s been in twenty minutes,” announced Jane, glancing at the clock. Paul raised his head and glowered at her.
“Can you or can you not hold your tongue?”
“I can not,” answered Jane, frankly.
“Who’s making this cake?”
“Come, Janey, leave Paul alone and don’t bother him,” said Elise. “Come over here and let me try this sleeve to see if it fits.” Elise was engaged in making over one of her mother’s gowns into a school-dress for Jane. Jane obediently stood through the process of a fitting, but craning around to keep her eye on Paul.
Suddenly, taking hold of the hot handle of the oven-door with his apron, he flung it open; and reaching in, pulled forth the huge cake pan.
“There! Now, Aunt Gertrude, come and look at this fellow! How’s that for a blooming success?” His face simply beamed with pride as a chorus of “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” greeted his first real triumph. Five big disks of cake, delicately, perfectly browned, light as a feather, he turned out onto the wooden board.
“Beautiful!” cried Aunt Gertrude. “I’ve never made a better one myself, have I Elise? No, not even your grandfather could make that cake more perfectly.”
Paul swelled out his broad chest.
“Now I am a Baker!” he announced. “I’m the boss around here, and I think I’ll begin by firing—Jane!”