Part 35 (1/2)
After a restless night due to strange beds and surroundings, still fatigued with their long journey, their muscles stiff from the ”churning” in the stagecoach, they were not better natured for being ferociously hungry.
After wandering around to look listlessly at the ponies, and at the salt-water plunge that was to rejuvenate them, they sat down on the edge of the platforms in front of their tents to endure somehow the three hours which must pa.s.s before breakfast.
The dawn was sweet-scented, the song of the meadow-lark celestial, and the colours of the coming day reflected on the snow-covered peaks a sight to be remembered, but the guests had no eyes or ears or nose for any of the charms of the early morning. The rising of the sun was nothing as compared to the rising of the cook who would appease their savage hunger.
Conversation was reduced to monosyllables as, miserable and apathetic, they sat thinking of the food they had sent back to Mr. Cone's kitchen with caustic comments, of the various dishes for which the chef of The Colonial was celebrated.
Mr. Stott thought that his watch must be slow until it was found that every other watch agreed with his exactly. He declared that when the cook did appear he meant to urge him to hurry breakfast.
The cook came out, finally, at seven-thirty, and, after a surprised glance at the row on the platforms, strode into the kitchen where he rattled the range as if it were his purpose to wreck it.
When the smoke rose from the chimney Mr. Stott went to the door to carry out his intention of asking the cook to speed up breakfast.
A large sign greeted him:
DUDES KEEP OUT
The cook was a gaunt, long-legged person with a saturnine countenance.
He wore a seersucker coat with a nickel badge pinned on the lapel of it.
As an opening wedge Mr. Stott smiled engagingly and pointed to it:
”For exceptional gallantry, I presume--a war medal?”
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 fas.h.i.+on 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.