Tom hastily emptied his bedroom pitcher into the kettle, and set it among the blazing logs.
"Now, Bob, fire away. Let us see what kind of a baker you will make."
Bob pulled off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and pinned a towel round his waist. He then looked around for the flour, of which a large bowlful had been procured.
"I guess," he said, "since so many eggs are gone, I had better not venture on so much flour. Give me the bowl, Tom."
"Do you boil the eggs first, Bob?"
"I—guess—not. They mix up better raw;" and he began to break the eggs into the flour.
"Don't forget the molasses," said Tom, proudly displaying a heavy jug. "It was cheap; so I got a plenty."
"That is lucky. Cake can't be too sweet for me." And Bob stopped breaking eggs to pour a generous stream of strong black molasses into the bowl.
"I tell you what, boys," he added, "all our trouble would have gone for nothing if I hadn't just happened to remember the soda at the last minute, and bought a quarter of a pound. I think I will put it all in, to make up for the milk, you know."
"I've got something for the cake," said John Stanley, and he produced from his pocket a handful of raisins.