A long table stood in the middle of the room, covered with a white cloth, and on it reposed several chafing-dishes, a pile of plates, forks, spoons and knives, and a quantity of paper napkins.  Olives, crisp little pickles and plates of crackers were the only visible evidences of food, and to the hungry girls the prospect was not encouraging.

“If you will kindly be seated, young ladies,” said Frank, whose woolly black locks made his imposing manner ridiculous, “we will now show you how much we know.”

“How little, you mean,” added his sister in an audible whisper.

“I’m not going to have Dolly near me while I cook,” said Frank decidedly.  “You go and watch Arthur, Dolly; that’s a good girl.”

“Don’t watch me,” groaned Arthur.  “Charlotte and Ruth have got their eyes glued on everything I’m doing already.  Watch Phil, Dorothy.  He’s much nicer than I am.”

Mr. and Mrs. Marshall slipped quietly away about this time, and then, with their guests showing an irritating and undue interest in all that they did, the boys began the preparation of the supper.  As the work progressed, wigs were pushed out of place and finally discarded; hooks and eyes, too fragile for such muscular young ladies, loosed their hold, and skirts were trampled under foot and cast aside.  At last it was only six boys in girlish-looking waists who were working with pretended confidence but real anxiety under the eyes of their unsparing critics.

It leaked out afterward that the boys had been practicing for several weeks on the special dishes they made, and it was a great relief to the girls to find this out.  On this evening, however, the lordly creatures asserted that cooking was an art that reached perfection only when man undertook it, and that a man knew by instinct quantities, seasoning and time of preparation.

The girls, though not half believing, watched with a surprise not unmixed with awe while Phil cooked a lobster a la Newburg, seasoned to perfection, Arthur prepared delicious creamed potatoes, and Frank did up cold lamb in hot currant jelly in the most approved style.  There were potato chips and buttered brown bread to eat with the lobster, and warm rolls to go with the second course.  Everything was so good that the girls could only wonder and eat.

“Could I have a glass of water, please?” begged Ruth just before the feast began.

“Sure.  Oh, wait a minute and I’ll get you something better than water,” said Joe, plunging down the stairs and into the house, to return in a moment laden with bottles of ginger-ale.

“Now watch him open them, Ruth,” said Charlotte with pretended admiration.  “See how skilfully he does it.  No girl could ever attain to anything like that.  After all boys are superior beings and—­”

“Wow,” gasped Joe, as a fountain of ginger-ale rose from the bottle and struck him squarely in the face.

“Here, take that bottle out of the way.  It’s going all over my creamed potatoes,” shouted Arthur.