Part 22 (2/2)

But the dude could not. The very sight of that laughing, ragged-coated dog made his blood boil. He hunted a club with which to meet the brute when he landed.

But Lance explained about the Barnacle before the _d.u.c.h.ess_ came close enough for them to land.

”Why, there he was ready to meet us at the Elberon store,” laughed Lance. ”I found out that everybody along the Big Woods trails knows the mongrel. He had come up yesterday with a tote-team which was going into the woods.

”He welcomed Reddy and me as if we were his long-lost brothers. But it's Purt he wants to see--believe me!”

”I'll fix him!” threatened the dude, from the sh.o.r.e, and waving a club.

”Hold on!” begged Lance. ”I have a better idea than that. I didn't bring the Barnacle along to be slaughtered to make a Sweet holiday--no, sir! What do you think about leaving him at the island here with the girls, Chet?”

”Great! he'll guard the camp,” declared Laura's brother. ”n.o.body else will come around to steal grub.”

”That's a good idee, Mister,” said Liz, from the cook-tent. ”The dog is wuth more than any boy to watch for us.”

”Hear that, will you?” demanded Chet. ”You girls have one fine suffragette in this Lonesome Liz, as Billy calls her.”

”She's ripe for battle, when it comes to pitting the ladies against the mere male,” laughed Laura. ”We have found _that_ out.”

Against Purt's objections the Barnacle was allowed to come ash.o.r.e. And the poor beast _did_ seem so delighted to be among them again that they had not the heart to treat him badly. At least, n.o.body hated him save Lily and Purt.

Barnacle was fed hugely by Liz Bean, and had to lie down after it and sleep. So he did not disturb Purt during the afternoon.

The girls had agreed to get supper all by themselves. Liz and Mrs.

Morse were to have nothing to do with it.

Bobby and Laura made cake. There were chickens to roast--two pairs of them--that Lance had thoughtfully bought of a woman at the Crossing.

These were handed over to the tender mercies of Jess and Nell.

Now, Jess was a good cook; she did most of the housework at the Morse cottage. But when they had had chicken, the butcher always cleaned the creature before sending it home.

”My goodness!” sniffed Nell. ”What do you know about taking a chicken apart?”

”Not--not much, I am afraid,” admitted Jess, ”And here are four of them! Well, we ought to learn a good deal about it by the time we have butchered all four.”

”Ugh! I don't want to cut into them. And some of their insides are the delicacies of the chicken, while other parts are no good. Do you know one from the other, Jess?”

”I reckon I know the giblets--if I can once get at them,” said Jess.

”Mother and I took our sewing machine to pieces once, and fixed it,”

Nellie said, ”and that was pretty complicated. But we had a book of instructions----”

”They don't issue a book of instructions with a roasting chicken,”

Jess chuckled. ”It's up to us, I expect----”

Then she called Lance. They had to admit a boy _was_ good for something once in a while. Lance knew all about cleaning and drawing chickens, and he did _that_ part of the work very neatly and with dispatch.

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