Bob plunged his knife in. Whew! It went in like the knife into the pie of which Tom Thumb had eaten out the contents. The beautifully rounded surface fell flat.
The boys were astonished.
"What makes it so hard to cut?"
"I don't know," said Bob, desperately, stopping to whet his knife on his shoe. "There, taste it;" and he pulled off some pieces of the leathery stuff.
"Ugh!" "Horrible!" "What stuff!" "Shoe-leather is nothing to it!" "It is as bitter as rhubarb!" "Why, he said he knew how to make cake!" "Where did you take your diploma?" were the exclamations that went round the table.
Then there was silence. Bob seemed particularly moody, and the others cast black looks at him as they pushed their chairs back from the Barmecide feast.
At that moment a loud hissing sound was heard from the fire. The molasses was boiling over.
Tom flew to the rescue; but too late. The kettle had tilted over on the unstable logs, and the molasses was pouring into the flames and rolling over the carpet like lava from a volcano. The room was filled with flying soot, ashes, smoke, and a horrible smell of burned molasses. The boys stood looking on in helpless consternation.
"Hi—yi!" screamed Dick, suddenly leaping upon a chair.
"What is the matter?" asked the frightened boys in chorus.