The question of what was to make up the dinner bill of fare appeared to be an important one to all, and many were the suggestions made to the cooks. Some proposed that the work of raising the tent be intrusted to other hands, so that Bill and Tip could go out and bring in a deer or a bear; others thought the old hen should be killed at once, and served up as a roast; while one portion of the party seemed to think it Captain Jimmy’s duty to get his ship under way and go after some fish for a chowder.
But Tim and Bobby did not allow any of these remarks to trouble them; they were the legally elected cooks, and they proposed to do the work in their own way.
“We’ll get the dinner,” said Tim, with some dignity; “an’ after it’s done, if you fellers don’t like it, you can cook one to suit yourselves.”
But the cooks did listen to what Bill had to say, since he was one of the high officials, and he was strongly in favor of making the first dinner in camp a “big” one, even going so far as to propose in all earnestness that the hen be killed.
“We might jest as well eat her,” he said, as he looked murderously toward the unhappy fowl, which was struggling to free herself from her bonds at the risk of breaking her leg. “’Cause jest as likely as not she’ll get away, an’ then we sha’n’t so much as have a smell of her.”
“It will take us too long to fix her up for dinner,” said Tim, who was just the least bit afraid that he was not cook enough to serve the hen properly, “We can get enough to eat to-day without havin’ so much fuss.”
“I don’t care how long it takes; what we want is a bang-up dinner, an’ I go in for havin’ it now,” said Bill, decidedly.
Bobby was on the point of throwing the weight of his opinion against the proposed feast when a bark of triumph was heard from Tip, and the question was settled without farther discussion. The dog, which had been struggling to get free from the time he had been tied so near the hen, to which he seemed to think he had a perfect right, finally succeeded in releasing himself. There was a sudden rush on his part, a loud, cackling protest from poor Biddy, who seemed to anticipate her fate, and then she was tossed in the air a dead chicken.
Bill had presence of mind enough, fortunately for the dinner prospects, to seize his hen before Tip made his lunch from her, and he said, as he handed her to Tim:
“There, you see Tip knew we ought to kill her, an’ so he did it for us. Now we can have a good dinner.”
Tim made no reply, and perhaps for the first time in his life he was angry with Tip for having meddled in matters which did not concern him. It was necessary now to cook the hen, and as he stood with her in his hand the terrible thought came to him that he did not even know enough to prepare her for cooking.
“Do you think we had better have her roasted or boiled?” he asked, in a low tone, of Bobby.
Now, this other cook was quite as perplexed about the matter as Tim was, and he was thoroughly well pleased that he had allowed his partner to take the lead in other matters, so that the latter would now be obliged to take all the responsibility of the hen’s appearance at the dinner-table.
“I think we had better roast her,” he said, in a careless sort of way, as if to him one style of cooking was as easy as another.
Again was Tim disappointed. He had hoped Bobby would propose boiling her, in which case all he would be obliged to do would be to pop her into the kettle, letting her stay there until she was done. But since Bobby was so cruel as to propose the hardest way of cooking the hen, roasted it must be, or gone was his reputation as cook.
“I’ll pick the feathers off,” said Bill, gleefully; and Tim handed him the fowl.
“I don’t seem to see how we’re goin’ to get along,” said Tim to Bobby. “We ain’t got any dishes to cook her in.”
“We don’t want any, do we?” asked his assistant, in some surprise. “I always thought when folks that were campin’ out cooked anything they stuck it on a stick in front of the fire, an’ let it sizzle.”
“We can do it so now!” he exclaimed; and, since this suggestion had been made, roasting chickens did not appear to be any very hard matter after all.
He piled the wood on until he had a fire large enough to roast a pig, cut a long, sharp stick on which to spit the hen, and had hardly completed these preparations when Bill Thompson reappeared with the now featherless victim of Tip’s bloodthirsty nature.
Bill’s work might have been done more neatly; but what did a few feathers amount to when a dozen hungry boys were waiting to be fed? Tim was not quite sure whether he had better cut off the head and legs, or not; but, as they did not seem to be in the way, he concluded they might as well be cooked. Neither did he think any cleaning necessary, but plunged the stick through her, and stuck one end in the ground in front of the fire with all the grace of an experienced cook.
The remainder of the party watched this work with hungry eagerness; and when Tim filled the kettle with potatoes they settled themselves down contentedly to wait for the “bang-up” dinner for which they were in a measure indebted to Tip.
The water in the pot bubbled and boiled merrily; the murdered hen began to steam and sizzle, till every boy’s mouth watered with anticipation; while Tim and Bobby bustled around in an important manner, feeling that they were looked up to as the head men of the party, and enjoying the distinction immensely.
They piled on the wood, stirred the potatoes, as if that was the important part of cooking that vegetable, while every few moments Tim would smell of the hen, nearly singeing the hair from his head each time. They were certainly good cooks, if keeping up a big fire could make them so.
The hen did not appear to be revengeful at having been so suddenly deprived of life, for in a short time her rather lean body began to turn brown, and a most delicious odor arose on the air, even if she was thickly incrusted with ashes.
As Tim turned her carefully he thought with surprise that he was a really good cook, and blamed himself for having been so distrustful of his own ability.
Thus matters went on, successfully but slowly, until some of the boys showed such plain signs of impatience that Tim thought it necessary to display more evidences of the dinner, even though the hen was far from being roasted.
He and Bobby selected from the cooked provisions enough in the way of pies and cake to make twice as large a party feel very uncomfortable. They spread this feast at one side of the fire, where it would be out of the way of the smoke, and Tim was trying to calculate how it would be possible to cut an apple pie in eleven pieces, and have them all of equal size, when a sound as of water coming in contact with fire, accompanied by a cry of dismay from Bill Thompson, caused him to start violently.
The sight that met his startled gaze was a sad one, and it did not seem any less so to him than it did to all the others of that hungry party.
The kettle of potatoes had been hung to the poles by a rope, which had burnt slowly until it broke, letting the potatoes, water, and kettle into the fire, deluging the half-roasted hen, and basting it with cinders until it looked like a huge ball of mud.
The steam and smoke were so dense that it was impossible to attempt a rescue. All that could be done was to wait a few moments, and Tim spent that time dancing around the ruins like a crazy Indian.
It was a horror-stricken party that stood around the drowned fire, watching the cooks as they fished up first the muddy hen, and then the potatoes, all looking very sorry for their plunge into the ashes.
“Now all you’ve got to do,” said Bill Thompson, with the air of one who knew, “is to put the potatoes right back an’ wash the hen. They’ll cook jest as well as ever, only it’ll take a little longer, that’s all.”
Surely there was nothing so serious about the accident if it could be repaired with so little trouble, and the spirits of the party rose as rapidly as they had fallen. The hen was given a sea bath, which took nearly all the ashes off, and those which remained, Bill Thompson thought, would make her taste the better. The potatoes did not need any cleansing, so Tim thought, and were put into the pot again, looking quite dirty, but in very nearly a cooked condition.
Another fire was built, and rocks were placed in such a way around it that the kettle could rest on them. The hen was put on another stick, and again the chances for dinner looked promising.
The food which had been spread out on the ground looked very tempting to the idle ones of the hungry party, and every now and then one would try to get a piece of pie or cake, until Tim, who was determined that no one should have anything to eat until all could be served, was almost at his wits’ end to prevent them from making a perfect raid on the larder.
Finally, worn out with running from the fire to the table every time he saw one of the party moving innocently up that way, he told Bobby to keep strict guard over the food, and that young gentleman wiped the ashes and perspiration from his face with an air of relief, as he seated himself near the largest pie, prepared to act the part of watch-dog.
Tip, who had been running about in everybody’s way, and seriously troubling his master, now came toward the fire, and sat down on his little stubbed tail in such a suspicious manner that Tim felt reasonably certain it was his purpose to steal the hen whenever a good opportunity presented itself.
Such base action on Tip’s part caused Tim more delay, as he was obliged to tie the dog securely to a tree out of reach of temptation, and by the time the tired cook got back to his work again a great commotion was raised by Captain Jimmy and Bobby.
When Bill Thompson had quelled the tumult it was learned that Captain Jim doubted Bobby’s honesty from the first moment he had been appointed guardian of the food, and had watched him from behind a tree. He stated positively that he saw Bobby’s eyes fixed on the apple-pie in such a way as no officer of the company should look at a pie, unless the time had come to eat it, and, at a time when he thought no one was looking, Jim was sure he saw him put his fingers under the crust, pull out two slices of apple, and eat them.
Of course such a charge as this caused intense excitement, and the majority of the party thought Bobby ought to be punished in some way, as a warning to others, and more especially to show that the officers of the party should be above reproach, or, failing in their duty, be punished severely.
Bobby actually grew frightened as his companions discussed the question of his punishment, and he looked imploringly at Tim, thinking his brother-officer should try to shield him in his crime of stealing the pie. But there was no pity to be seen in the head cook’s face; he felt that the taking of those two pieces of apple by the man who had been appointed to guard them was indeed a crime.
Some of the party proposed that the culprit be condemned to go without his dinner; others, not quite so bloodthirsty, believed he should be deprived of his office, while there were those who believed that to forbid him eating any pie would be punishment enough.
It is hard to say just how Bobby would have been obliged to atone for the sin, if the hand of Justice had not been stayed by the dinner itself.
The chicken was becoming blackened and burnt on one side, from not being turned often enough, the potatoes were boiling into a perfect jelly, and it was all being done so quickly that Tim had not the time to attend to the food properly; therefore it was he who saved his assistant from his judges.
“You’ll have to let him go this time, for he must help me,” he said. “We’ll make him work all the harder to pay for what he’s done.”
Once more over the smoky fire and amid the flying ashes Bobby labored for the good of others, working out the punishment for his sin.
The kettle of potatoes was taken from the fire; and while Bobby picked out the pieces—for they had boiled until they were discouraged, and had burst their skins—arranging them on two shingles, Tim took the well-blackened remains of poor Biddy from the spit, laying them on a short bit of board in great triumph.
Then the hungry party gathered around the place which represented the table, and waited impatiently to be served.
Bill Thompson, with his hunting-knife, proceeded to carve the fowl, which was a work of some time, owing to its exceeding toughness.
In order to show proper respect for the office he held, Bill waited on Captain Jimmy first, and that young gentleman did not waste much time before he began to eat.
The roast was quite raw inside, even though it was burnt outside, but that, in Captain Jimmy’s hungry condition, made very little difference. He cut off the first mouthful and began to eat in a ravenous manner, when suddenly he stopped, looking very queer.
“What is the matter?” asked Tim, anxiously, quick to notice the change in the captain’s face.
“I dunno,” said Jim; “but it tastes kind o’ funny.”
“That’s ’cause you ain’t used to hen,” said Bill, almost savagely, not pleased that any one should find fault with his fowl.
Just then another of the party, who had received his portion and begun eating, laid down his knife and fork with an unmistakable air of discomfort.
“Perhaps you don’t like hen,” cried Bill, now growing angry that food of his providing should be refused.
By this time several of the party had shown unmistakable signs of disliking the roast, and Bill proceeded to make an investigation.
He cut off a large mouthful, and began eating it with the air of one who thinks he knows just what he is about to taste, and has made up his mind beforehand to be pleased. But he stopped as suddenly as the others had, and looking sternly at Tim, he asked:
“What did you put on this hen?”
“Nothin’; perhaps it tastes queer ’cause the ’taters tipped over on it.”
“It don’t taste like ’taters,” said Bill; “it tastes a good deal worse.”
Then he examined the uncarved portion of the fowl, and the mystery was explained.
“I know what the matter is, an’ I don’t think you’re much of a cook, Tim Babbige. You’ve cooked the hen without cleanin’ her, an’ of course she’s spoiled.”
Tim could make no reply, for as soon as Bill spoke he remembered how chickens ought to look when ready to be roasted, and he knew he could no longer hope to be considered a competent cook.
That day the party made their dinner of boiled potatoes and pastry, while Tip actually revelled on the half-roasted fowl he had so ruthlessly slain.