Part 21 (2/2)

So Wendy departed on her foraging expedition, collected the necessary funds after much hunting in various drawers and coat pockets, hurried to the orchard, and climbed the fence. Freddie Entwistle was still steadily engaged in the rural occupation of ridding his father's field of superfluous stones, but he kept an eye on the horizon, and at the sight of Wendy's beckoning finger he flung duty to the winds.

”D'you want me?” he grinned, as he came panting across the newly ploughed earth.

”Yes,” said his siren sweetly. ”I want you badly. Will you go to the village and buy something for me?”

”I don't mind. What shall I get?”

”Half a pound of biscuits and something to fry.”

”Bacon?” suggested her swain laconically.

”N-n-no. We had bacon for breakfast.”

”Kippers or ham?”

”I don't think kippers; but really it must be anything you can get.

Here's the money. If there's any change, take it out in sweets.”

”Right you are! I'll be as sharp as I can.”

”It's something to have a knight-errant who's prepared to relieve a maiden in distress,” reflected Wendy, seating herself on the fence to await the return of her chivalrous squire.

He came back in course of time with his pockets bulging with parcels, evidently very proud of himself for having executed his lady's commands.

Her thanks and a commission of sweets left him radiant. He returned to his stone-picking, living in a dream.

The party on the island received Wendy with enthusiasm. The fire was burning beautifully in the bucket, the tin had been scoured with sand and well washed, large ivy leaves had been picked to serve as plates, and the company had their penknives ready.

”It's sausages!” exclaimed Wendy, opening one of the parcels; ”and he's actually bought some lard to fry them in. What a brain--and only twelve!

That boy'll be a general some day, if he doesn't die of over-cleverness.

Biscuits to eat with them, my children, and some chocs. for dessert. I beg to propose that we accord a hearty vote of thanks to Freddie Entwistle.”

”For he's a jolly good fellow!

For he's a jolly good fellow!”

began Jess; but Diana promptly squashed her.

”Stop that noise! D'you want to give the whole show away, and have Lennie, and Nora, and Betty, and all the rest of the kids swarming down upon us? Anybody who can't keep quiet will be made to walk the plank.

Yes, and splash into the river at the other end of it! We wouldn't pick you out either; we'd let you drown!”

”Then I'd sing 'For he's a jolly good fellow' as my 'dying swan song',”

protested Jess. ”The kids are far enough away. No one can hear us.”

She took the hint, all the same, and did not allow her enjoyment to bubble over into music. Instead, she helped Wendy to p.r.i.c.k the sausages with a penknife and place them on the temporary frying-pan. The biscuit-tin lid just fitted nicely over the bucket. In a few minutes there was a grand sound of fizzling, and a most delicious scent began to waft itself over the waters of the lake. The best of a bucket-fire is that everybody can sit round it in a circle and superintend the cooking operations. Eight penknives prodded the sausages so often that it was a wonder they were not all chopped to pieces before they were done. At last the connoisseurs declared they were brown enough, and they were carefully and mathematically halved and served on biscuits.

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