“They’re more likely to have roast turkey,” said Roy. “Don’t I go up there every couple of days and play tennis? I can’t play the game even because they’re always pushing a chunk of cake into my left hand.”
“I know, Roy,” said Warde Hollister. He also was a far-sighted and thoughtful boy who did his homework in the afternoon and started on New Year’s saving up for next Christmas. “But this is a lawn-party—Japanese napkins and lettuce and things like that. We’re taking an awful chance, Roy. We may get salted almonds——”
“You should worry,” said Roy; “here’s your bathing suit. Come on, we’ve only got about an hour. Think of the poor children of Europe. Minerva Skybrow is positively guaranteed. I never saw such a bunch, you’re always worrying about something.”
And with that, by way of starting things, he pushed Connie Bennett into the water . . .
THE SCENE IS SET
In history we read that while the hardy pioneers toiled and suffered in the New England forest the gay votaries of fashion danced and made merry in the royal courts of Europe. And history repeats itself, for while Minerva Skybrow and her girl companions decked the Skybrow lawn with lanterns of many colors, and frilled their hair, and festooned the rustic summer-house with streamers, the sturdy adventurers who swore allegiance to the martial traffic sign of Pee-wee Harris were suffering as no hardy pioneer had ever suffered before as they loyally partook of the hunter’s stew which their leader had prepared in the dishpan. If, indeed, this novel concoction was the favorite fare of hunters, it is no wonder that the race of hunters is becoming extinct. But our business is not with the explorers.
The spacious lawn of the Skybrow home was bathed in the soft light of many paper lanterns depending from cords strung from tree to tree. Other lanterns nestled in the spreading trees like jewels in a setting of foliage.
On that night the genial moon smiled down upon the Camp-fire Girls and sent his myriad of rays like a serenading party to enliven the festive scene. The place looked like some enchanted grove. A platform had been built for the dancing, several little khaki-colored tents that had done service in the North Woods (north of Bridgeboro) dotted the lawn, the emblem of the Camp-fire Girls waved above the summer-house, bathed in the glow of a small search-light, and, glory of glories, a small tent nestling under a spreading elm near the moonlit river contained a table which looked like a snowy monument reared in tribute to the god of food.
Yes, Roy was right; the Skybrows did not do these things by halves. Here indeed was a haven for the famished; here rescue awaited the starving scout. In the center stood a pyramid of triangular sandwiches, rivalling in magnitude the pyramids of Egypt. This was flanked by two gorgeous icing cakes, one white and one brown. A bowl of chicken salad overflowed its cut glass confines, the same as Pee-wee’s island had overflowed its trusty scow.