The guardian nodded smilingly.

“If you think you can.”

“I’ll show you.  Where are the milk and the eggs and the other things?”

“The milk is in that pail that hangs over the side at the other end of the boat.  The eggs are in the paper box behind the stove.  The rest of your materials are in the supply box.  As for water, there is a lake full of it, enough to make custard for the whole world,” remarked Miss Elting.

“Now you are teasing me—­and you, too, Harriet.  You will be glad I thought of it, however, after you have tasted the custard.”

“After I have tasted it, yes,” returned Harriet significantly.

That there was some hidden meaning in Harriet’s remark, Margery well knew.  That was as near as she got to understanding just then.  Later on she understood more fully.

“I am afraid you haven’t time to make the custard for supper,” added Harriet.

“It will do for dessert later in the evening.  We don’t have to eat everything all at once, you know.”  Margery was in a flurry of importance, over the idea of making the custard.  Tommy, despite her apparent indifference, was eagerly waiting for the custard.  It was one of her favorite dishes.

Buster broke the eggs in an agate dish, then added the milk, a cupful for each person.  The eggs, of course, had first been beaten up and the sugar added.  Harriet, with her skirt pinned up, was frying bacon and potatoes until the smoke in the cabin was so thick as to drive out those who were not actively engaged in getting the supper.  Harriet and Margery stuck to their posts, Tommy Thompson watched the operations from the deck, now and then coughing to remind them that she was there.

“There, I think everything is ready,” announced Buster.  “How soon are you going to finish with the oil stove?”

“Please do not wait for me.  I shall not be done here for some little time.  The coffee isn’t ground yet.  What part of the stove do you require for your custard?”

“The oven, of course.  Don’t you know how to make custard?”

“Oh, yes.”  Harriet turned her face from her companion, apparently to avoid the smoke, but in reality that Margery might not observe her laughter.  “Help yourself to the oven.”

Margery groped about underneath the oil stove, burned her fingers and bumped her forehead against the edge of the stove.

“If you please, don’t knock the top of the stove off.  We are some distance from another stove,” reminded Harriet.

“I—­I can’t find the oven,” wailed Margery.

“Don’t you know why?”

“No-o.”

“That is strange.”

“Where is the oven?”

“There isn’t any on this stove.  Hadn’t you discovered that yet, you silly?”

“No—­oven?” repeated Buster.

“No.  No oven.”

“Then I’ve mixed my custard for nothing?”

“I am afraid you have unless you can turn the mixture to some other purpose.”