Molly Brown's Freshman Days Part 10

CHAPTER VII.

AN INCIDENT OF THE COFFEE CUPS.

Molly turned up at the Beta Phi House about five o'clock the next evening. She wore a blue linen so that if any grease sputtered it would fall harmlessly on wash goods, and in other ways attired herself as much like a maid as possible with white collar and cuffs and a very plain tight arrangement of the hair.

"If I'm to be a servant, I might as well look like one," she thought, as she marched upstairs and rapped on Judith's door.

"Come in," called the voice of Jennie Wren. "Judith's gone walking with her guests," she explained; "but she left her orders with me, and I'll transmit them to you," she added rather grandly. "You are to do the cooking. Here are all the things in the ice box, and there's the gas stove on the trunk. Miss Brinton and I will set the table."

Molly gathered that Caroline Brinton, the unbending young woman from Philadelphia, had been chosen as her a.s.sistant.

The tiny ice box was stuffed full of provisions. There was the inevitable beefsteak, as Sallie had predicted; also canned soup; a head of celery, olives, grape fruits, olive oil, mushrooms, cheese--really, a bewildering display of food stuffs.

"Did Miss Blount decide on the courses?" Molly asked Jennie Wren.

"No; she got the raw material and left the rest entirely with you. 'Tell her to get up a good dinner for six people,' she said. 'I don't care how she does it, only she must have it promptly at six-fifteen.'"

There were only two holes to the gas stove and likewise only two saucepans to fit over them, so that it behooved Molly to look alive if she were to prepare dinner for six in an hour and a quarter.

"Where's the can opener?" she called.

A calm, experienced cook with the patience of a saint might have felt some slight irritability if she had been placed in Molly's shoes that evening. Nothing could be found. There was no can opener, no ice pick, the coffeepot had a limited capacity of four cups, and there was no broiler for the steak. It had to be cooked in a pan. It must be confessed also that it was the first time in her life Molly had ever cooked an entire meal. She had only made what her grandmother would have called "covered dishes," or surprise dishes, and she now found preparing a dinner of four courses for six people rather a bewildering task.

At last there came the sound of voices in the next room. She put on the beefsteak. Her cheeks were flaming from the heat of the little stove.

Her back ached from leaning over, and her head ached with responsibility and excitement.

"Is everything all right?" demanded Judith, blowing into the room with an air of "if it isn't it will be the worse for you."

"I believe so," answered Molly.

"Why did you put the anchovies on crackers?" demanded the older girl irritably. "They should have been on toast."

"Because there wasn't enough bread for one thing, and because there was no way to toast it if there had been," answered Molly shortly.

No cook likes to be interfered with at that crucial moment just before dinner.

"Here are your cap and ap.r.o.n," went on Judith. "You know how to wait, don't you? Always hand things at the left side."

"Water happens to be poured from the right," answered Molly, pinning on the little muslin cap. She was in no mood to be dictated to by Judith Blount or any other black-eyed vixen.

Judith made no answer. She seemed excited and absent-minded.

Caroline placed the anchovies while Molly poured the soup into cups, there being no plates. The voices of the company floated in to her.

Jennie Wren had joined them, making the sixth.

She heard a man's voice exclaim:

"I say, Ju-ju, I call this very luxurious. We never had anything so fine as this at Harvard. You always could hold up the parent and get what you wanted. Now, I never had the nerve. And, by the way, have you got a cook, too?"

"Only for to-night," answered Judith. "We usually eat downstairs with the others."

"You're working some poor little freshman, ten to one," answered Judith's brother, for that was evidently who it was. Then Molly heard some one run up a brilliant scale and strike a chord and a good baritone voice began singing:

"'Oh, I'm a cook and a captain bold, And a mate of the Nancy brig, And a bo'sun tight and a mids.h.i.+pmatemite, And the crew of the captain's gig.'"

"Why don't you join in, Eddie? But I forgot. It would never do for a Professor of English Literature at a girls' college to lift his voice in ribald song."

Some one laughed. Molly recognized the voice instantly. She knew that Professor Edwin Green was dining at Judith's that night, and her inquiring mind reached out even further into the realms of conjecture, and she guessed who was the author of his light opera.

"Cousin Edwin, will you sit there, next to me?" said Judith's voice.

"Cousin?" repeated Molly. "So that's it, is it?"

Then other voices joined in--Mary Stewart, Jennie Wren and Martha Schaeffer, a rich girl from Chicago, who roomed in that house.

They gobbled down the first course as people usually dispatch relishes, and as Caroline removed the dishes, Molly appeared with the soup. None of the girls recognized her, of course, which was perfectly good college etiquette, although Mary Stewart smiled when Molly placed her cup of soup and whispered:

"Good work."

Molly gave her a grateful look, and Professor Edwin Green, looking up, caught a glimpse of Molly's flushed face, and smiled, too.

"I say, Ju-ju, who's your head waitress?" Molly could not help overhearing Richard Blount ask when she had left the room.

"Oh, just a little Southern girl named Smith, or something," answered Judith carelessly.

"That young lady," said Professor Edwin Green, "is Miss Molly Brown, of Kentucky."

The young freshman's face was crimson when she brought in the steak and placed it in front of Mr. Blount.

Then she took her stand correctly behind his chair, with a plate in her hand, waiting for him to carve.

Sometimes two members of the same family are so unlike that it is almost impossible to believe that blood from the same stock runs in their veins. So it was with Richard Blount and his sister, Judith. She was tall and dark and arrogant, and he was short and blond and full of good-humored gayety. He rallied all the girls at the table. He teased his Cousin Edwin. He teased his sister, and then he ended by highly praising the food, looking all the time from one corner of his mild blue eyes at Molly's flushed face.

"Really," he exclaimed, "a French chef must have broiled this steak. Not even Delmonico, nor Oscar himself at the Waldorf, could have done it better. Isn't it the top-notch, Eddie? What's this? Mushroom sauce? By Jupiter, it's wonderful to come out here in the wilds and get such food."

Mary Stewart began to laugh. After all, it was just good-natured raillery.

"Why, Mr. Blount," she said, "there is something to be found here that is lots better than porter-house steak."

"What is it? Name it, please!" cried Richard. "If I must miss the train, I must have some, whatever it is--cream puffs or chocolate fudge?"

"It's Kentucky ham of the finest, what do you call it--breed? Three years old. You've never eaten ham until you've tasted it."

She smiled charmingly at Molly, who pretended to look unconscious while she pa.s.sed the vegetables. Judith endeavored to change the subject.