“Do go on! I’m sure it is interesting!”
“It was this way: Bill had been living all alone on his sheep ranch over there, and like many western men who live lonely lives, was rather out-spoken and uncouth, altho’ true as steel. He grew tired of just bacon and corn-dodgers for grub, so he decided he’d try his luck at making a cake. I happened to be riding the range that day and went out of my way to go over and say ‘How’ to Bill. As I neared the cabin a suspicious odor greeted my nostrils simultaneously with Bill’s appearance at the door. He had nearly as much flour over him as you have now,” added Davis, facetiously.
Bess glanced at her tell-tale apron and folded it across her lap as she sat on a low stool interested in the cake tale.
“‘Hello, Bill,’ I called, ‘what’s up? Smells to me as if you had a cook! Been getting married and didn’t send me a card?’ I said to him, as if in earnest. ‘Aw hell, no, Dave, this haint no fit place for a woman, even if I could find one who would have such an onnery cuss as I am,’ he answered. ‘Better unsaddle and stop for grub; got some swell dope ’bout ready. Come in pretty easy though ’er she’ll fall.’
“Just as I crossed the threshold he had taken a cautious peep into the tiny oven. As he lifted his red face a radiant and expectant smile wreathed his seamy mug, and mouth-juice trickled down either side of his chin, anticipating the delight to be. Presently he took me by the arm, lead me cautiously over to the stove and opened the oven to let me see what it contained. ‘A cake, by thunder!’ he said. ‘Ain’t she a peach, Davy, old boy! Look at her foam! She is sure great stuff—and—but—Gee! She’s—what’s it doing—it’s—’ and just then there was a sizz-z-z—and ‘she struck bottom.’ Bill’s face fell with the cake and he banged the door with a vengeance. For a moment he stood with his hands thrust into his pockets, and then burst out:—‘Bake—damn ye—we’ll eat you anyhow!’ ‘What seems to be the trouble with it, Bill?’ I asked as consolingly as I could without roaring. ‘She ought to be good—I looked in the receipt book, and the first thing I read about cakes it said—the yelks of seven aigs—Sheep don’t lay no aigs, so I shut the book and fixed ’er up to suit myself. I put in plenty of sugar and baking-powder and plenty of corn-meal to give ’er body. I didn’t have no vanilly or lemon flavor, so I just put in a squirt of Perry Davis’ Pain Killer, and I guess that’s what knocked her out.’”
“Did you eat it?” asked Bess.
“N—no; we tried to scoop out the middle, but even Bill declined and said he guessed he’d flop her over and bake her again tomorrow.”
“Well, this time mine seems to be all right,” remarked Bess, as she peered into the oven.
What a chat the two were having, both enjoying it greatly.