The hero stopped long enough to offer it for Mr. Stott's closer inspection.
It read: UNITED ORDER OF PASTRY COOKS OF THE WORLD Taken somewhat aback, Mr. Stott said feebly: "Very nice, indeed--er----"
"Mr. Hicks, at your service!" the cook supplemented, bowing formally.
"Hicks," Mr. Stott added.
"Just take a second longer and say 'Mister.'"
The cook eyed him in such a fashion as he administered the reprimand for his familiarity that Mr. Stott backed off without mentioning his starving condition.
"What did he say?" they asked, eagerly, as he sat down on his platform, somewhat crestfallen.
"He seems a temperamental person," Mr. Stott replied, evasively. "But we shall have breakfast in due season."
It was suspected that Mr. Stott had failed in his mission, and they were sure of it as the hands dragged around to eight-thirty.
At that hour precisely Mr. Hicks came out and hammered on a triangle as vigorously as if it were necessary. In spite of their efforts to appear unconcerned when it jangled, the haste of the guests was nothing less than indecent as they hurried to the dining room and scrambled for seats at the table.
The promise of food raised their spirits a trifle and Mr. Appel was able to say humorously as, with his table knife, he scalped his agate-ware plate loose from the oil-cloth: "I suppose we shall soon learn the customs of the country. In a month we should all be fairly well ac'climated."
"Acclim'ated," Mr. Stott corrected.
"Ac'climated," Mr. Appel maintained, obstinately. "At least with your kind permission I shall continue to so pronounce it."
"I beg your pardon," Mr. Stott apologized with elaborate sarcasm, "but when I am wrong I like to be told of it." Which was not the strict truth for the reason that no one ever was able to convince him that he ever was mistaken. As a result of the discussion everyone was afraid to use the word for fear of offending one or the other.
The silence that followed while breakfast was being placed upon the table was broken by Miss Eyester, who said timidly: "In the night I thought I heard something sniffing, and it frightened me."
Not to be outdone in sensational experiences, Mrs. Stott averred positively: "There was some wild animal running over our tent. I could hear its sharp claws sticking into the canvas. A coyote, I fancy."
"A ground-squirrel, more likely," remarked Mr. Appel.
Mr. Stott smiled at him: "Squee-rrel, if you will allow me to again correct you."
"I guess I can't help myself," replied Mr. Appel, drily.
Mr. Stott shrugged a shoulder and his tolerant look said plainly that, after all, one should not expect too much of a man who had begun life as a "breaker-boy."