“I’ll cook a pie,” replied he, with alacrity. “I cooked ’em last summer at the lakes fit to set before a king.”
Laughing was the very mainspring of life at Camp Comfort; but the girls had never laughed yet as they did now, to see Buttons in full swing preparing to “cook a pie.” Lucy kindly summoned every member of the family to witness the performance. The taking-off of his coat, the pinning-up of his sleeves, the tying-on of an apron, the swathing of the head in a towel, the cleansing of hands with sand-soap and nail-brush; and Buttons was ready for action.
“Now,” said he, drawing a long breath and looking authoritatively through his spectacles. “Now, bring on the flour and things, and butter some plates.—Lard, butter, knife, spoon.—Where’s your milk? No, water won’t do. I prefer milk. Bring me half a cup.—Where’s your salt?”
He carefully measured out a half-cup of equal parts of butter and lard, and rubbed it into a pint of flour.
“Now, cream tartar and soda.”
The girls brought them with a growing feeling of respect. He stirred two teaspoonfuls of cream tartar into the flour, dissolved half as much soda in the milk, mixed all together rapidly, and rolled the mass on the board.
“I hope ’twill be better than the pie we had yesterday, that was baked in the spider,” said Mary, not heeding Lucy’s frown.
“How tough that was,” said Blanche. “What did Lucy put in to make it so tough?”
“She didn’t put in much of anything,” replied Fanny. “Jack said you could have cut it with a pair of scissors, ’twas so thin.”
“Hush, children, the rest of us couldn’t have done as well,” said Sadie, leaning over the table, watching Preston’s efforts. “What shall you fill it with?”