“Oh, that’s just the Shark’s way, ma’am,” Sam hastened to explain. “You see he’s a crackerjack at mathematics, and it’s all he cares for. That’s why we call him the Shark—he gobbles up problems so! And when he saw that funny map, he couldn’t help figuring what it meant.”
“He figured one thing correctly, at any rate,” said Mr. Grant. “There is a water-shed there, for there’s a spring, and the overflow drains north.”
“Well, there’ll be time enough for surveying talk, or whatever you call it, after dinner,” his wife interposed decidedly. “Come on, everybody! The things are on the table.”
The boys streamed into the dining-room, and took the places their hostess pointed out. Varley was again unobtrusively observant. This room, like the other, was big and cheery, with plants at the windows. A huge sideboard, set on curiously slender legs, ran half the length of one of the walls. Above it was a shelf on which stood a fine old clock. The table was very long; long enough, indeed, to accommodate all the party, including Lon, who took his chair quite as a matter of course. The cloth was fine and snowy white; the china and glass good, though a bit miscellaneous in design. Varley was clever enough to understand that the Grants evidently were very comfortably well-to-do, and this was borne out by the hospitable profusion with which the board was spread. There was set before Mr. Grant a huge platter, piled high with chicken fried a wonderful brown. There were mashed potatoes, and beets, and onions, and other vegetables; there was a wholesale supply of apple sauce and cranberries, and half a dozen kinds of pickles. There were supplies of bread and butter for a small regiment, and tall pitchers of milk, with a steaming urn of coffee, over which Mrs. Grant presided. A ruddy and somewhat agitated maid hovered about her mistress, with whom she exchanged stage whispers frequently, followed by raids upon the pantry and replenishment of this or that dish. It was all very informal, very jolly, and, above all, very, very good. There were certain flaky biscuits, which captivated Paul, and of which he consumed more than he liked to keep count of; though nobody seemed to bother on that score. Twice his plate went back for more chicken, following, be it said, the example set by other plates. The ride had sharpened appetites, which were healthily developed, anyway; the blandishments of Mrs. Grant were hardly needed to persuade her guests to prove themselves mighty trenchermen.
In that hospitable warmth good fellowship reigned. Step threw off his burden of care because of Poke’s misfortune, while Poke himself roused to a somewhat subdued cheerfulness. There might be dark trouble ahead, but for the present he gave himself to the good things of the moment.
Sam was as merry as the others, but a shadow of apprehension fell upon his face when Mrs. Grant rose and slipped into the pantry, whence proceeded sounds of her whispered conference with her assistant. Sam, of a sudden, had warnings. He had almost forgotten that long-promised mince pie; now he recalled it, with remembrance of the anguish of mind it had caused him and wonder if it was to put him to further ordeals. Luckily, he had not long to wait in uncertainty. The pantry door swung. Appeared Mrs. Grant personally bearing the famous pie, the maid escorting her.
And what a pie it was!
Lon’s admiring exclamation was no more than deserved tribute. “Great Scott, Mis’ Grant, but you sure done it this time! I’ve been brung up with pies, and I thought I’d seen all kinds they was, but I never clapped eyes on an old he-one like that! Jupiter crickets!”
Now, in truth, it was a great pie, an enormous pie, a pie of dimensions, baked in the biggest dish any of the boys had ever seen so used; a dish deep and wide. And it was a pie crowned with a gently rising dome of crust, tinted with the rich brown which bespeaks perfect cooking. Mrs. Grant set it on the table; the maid came, bearing a pile of plates. Knife in hand, the hostess paused to address the company.
“Boys, I can’t make a speech, but I’m going to tell you something. It’s kind of a family tradition of the Grants—a mince pie is. Why, way back in the days of Dominie Pike——”