Priscilla's Spies
“How did you know you’d meet us?” said Priscilla.
“I hoped for the best. I felt sure I’d meet you tomorrow if I didn’t
today. I should have dragged the peaches about with me until I did.
Nothing would have induced me to open the tin by myself. I’ve also got
two kinds of dessicated soup and----
“Penny-packers?” said Priscilla. “I know the look of them, but I never
bought one on account of the difficulty of cooking. I don’t believe
they’d be a bit good dry.”
“But I’ve borrowed Professor Wilder’s Primus stove,” said Miss
Rutherford, “and I’ve got two cups and an enamelled mug to drink it out
of.”
“We could have managed with the peach tin,” said Priscilla, “after we’d
finished the peaches. I hate luxury. But, of course, it’s awfully good
of you to think of the cups.”
“I hesitated about suggesting that we should take turns at the tin,”
said Miss Rutherford. “I knew you wouldn’t mind, but I wasn’t quite
sure----”
She glanced at Frank.
“Oh, he’d have been all right,” said Priscilla. “I’m training him in.”
“I’ve also got a pound and a half of peppermint creams,” said Miss
Rutherford.
“My favourite sweet,” said Priscilla. “You got them at Brannigan’s,
I hope. He keeps a particularly fine kind, very strong. You have a
delicious chilly feeling on your tongue when you draw in your breath
after eating them. But Brannigan’s is the only place where you get them
really good.”
“I forget the name of the shop, but I think it must have been
Brannigan’s. The man advised me to buy them the moment he heard you
were to be of the party. He evidently knew your tastes. Then--I’m almost
ashamed to confess it after what you said about luxury; but after all
you needn’t eat it unless you like----
“What is it?” said Priscilla. “Not milk chocolate, surely.”
“No. A loaf of bread.”
“Oh, bread’s all right. It’ll go capitally with the soup. Frank was
clamouring for bread yesterday, weren’t you, Cousin Frank? If there’s
any over after the soup we can make it into tipsy cake with the juice of
the peaches. That’s the way tipsy cake is made, except for the sherry,
which always rather spoils it, I think, on account of the burny taste
it gives. That and the whipped cream, which, of course, is rather good
though considered to be unwholesome. But you can’t have things like that
out boating.”
“Come on,” said Miss Rutherford, “we’ll start the Primus stove, and
while the water is boiling we’ll eat a few of the peppermint creams as
hors d’oeuvres.”
Priscilla jumped from the bow of the boat to the shore. “Jimmy
Kinsella,” she said, “go and help Mr. Mannix out of the boat. He’s got
a sprained ankle and can’t walk. Then you can take our anchor ashore and
shove out the boat. She’ll lie off all right if you haul down the jib.
Miss Rutherford and I will go and light the Primus stove. I’ve always
wanted to see a Primus stove, but I never have except in a Stores List
and then, of course, it wasn’t working.”
“Come on,” said Miss Rutherford. “I have it all ready in a sheltered
nook under the bank at the top of the beach.”
She took Priscilla’s hand and began to run across the seaweed towards
the grass. Half way up Priscilla stopped abruptly and looked round.
Jimmy Kinsella had his arm round Frank and was helping him out of the
boat.
“Hullo, Jimmy!” said Priscilla. “I’d better come back and give you a
hand. You’ll hardly be able to do that job by yourself.”
“I will, of course,” said Jimmy. “Why not?”
“I thought, perhaps, you wouldn’t,” said Priscilla, “on account of the
hole in your leg.”
“What hole?”
“The hole your father’s new heifer made when she drove her horn through
your leg,” said Priscilla. “I suppose there is a hole. There must be if
the horn went clean through. It can’t have closed up again yet.”
“I don’t know,” said Jimmy. “Did ever I meet a young lady as fond of the
funning as yourself, Miss. Many’s the time my da did be saying that the
like of Miss Priscilla----”
“Your da, as you call him,” said Priscilla, “says a deal more than his
prayers.”
“Do tell me about the hole in Jimmy’s leg,” said Miss Rutherford. “He
never mentioned it to me.”
“Nor wouldn’t,” said Priscilla, “because it’s like the rats and the
spotted fever and the bad smell, or what ever it was he told you. It’s
simply not there.”
Miss Rutherford lit the methylated spirits in the upper part of the
Primus stove. Priscilla pumped up the paraffin with enthusiasm. The
water was put on to boil. Then Priscilla asked for the packets of
desiccated soup.
“I find,” she said, “that it’s a capital plan to read the directions
for use before you actually do the thing, whatever it is. Last term I
spoiled a whole packet of printing paper--photographic, you know--by not
doing that. I read them afterwards and found out exactly where I’d gone
wrong, which was interesting, of course, but not much real use. Sylvia
Courtney rather rubbed it in. That’s the sort of girl she is.”
“A most disagreeable sort,” said Miss Rutherford. “I have met some like
her. In fact they’re rather common.”
“I wouldn’t say disagreeable. In fact I rather love Sylvia Courtney at
times. But she has her faults. We all have, which in some ways is rather
a good thing. If there weren’t any faults it would be so dull for people
like Aunt Juliet. You’re not a Ministering Child, I suppose?”
“No. Are you? I expect you must be.”
“I was once. Sylvia Courtney brought me to the meeting. We all had to do
some sewing and afterwards there was tea. I joined, of course. The sub.
was only sixpence, and there was always tea, with cake, though not good
cake. Afterwards I found that I’d sworn a most solemn oath always to do
a kind act to some one every day. That’s the sort of way you get let in
at those meetings.”
“You didn’t read the directions for use beforehand that time.”
“No. But in the end it turned out all right. It was just before the
hols when it happened, so, of course, Aunt Juliet had to be my principal
victim. I wouldn’t do kind acts to Father. He wouldn’t understand
them, not being educated up to Ministering Children. But Aunt Juliet is
different, for I knew that by far the kindest thing I could do to her
was to have a few faults. So I did and have ever since, though I stopped
being a Ministering Child next term and so wriggled out of the swear.”
Frank, leaning on Jimmy Kinsella, came towards them from the boat. He
was bent on being particularly polite to Miss Rutherford, feeling that
he ought to atone for his unfortunate blunder with the boat He took off
his cap and bowed.
“I hope,” he said, “that you’ve been successful in catching sponges.”
“I’ve not got any to-day,” said Miss Rutherford. “I haven’t begun to
fish for them. The tide isn’t low enough yet. How are you getting on
with the spies? Caught any?”
“Oh,” said Frank, “we don’t really think they are spies, you know.”
“All the same,” said Priscilla, “the president of the War Office is out
after them. At least we think he must be. We don’t see what else he can
be after, nor does Father.”
“Lord Torrington is to arrive at my uncle’s house to-day,” said Frank.
“Then they must be spies,” said Miss Rutherford. “Not that I ever
doubted it.”
“That water is pretty near boiling,” said Priscilla, “What about
dropping in the soup?”
“Which shall we have?” said Miss Rutherford. “There’s Mulligatawny and
Oxtail?”
“Mulligatawny is the hot sort,” said Priscilla, “rather like curry in
flavour. I’m not sure that I care much for it. By the way, talking of
hot things, didn’t you say you had some peppermint creams?”
Miss Rutherford produced the parcel. Priscilla put two into her mouth
and made a little pile of six others beside her on the ground. Frank
said that he would wait for his share till after he had his soup. Miss
Rutherford took one. The desiccated Oxtail soup was emptied into the
pot. Priscilla retained the paper in which it had been wrapped.
“‘Boil for twenty minutes,” she read, “‘stirring briskly.’ That can’t be
really necessary. I’ve always noticed that these directions for use are
too precautious. They go in frightfully for being on the safe side.
I should say myself that we’d be all right in trying it after five
minutes. And stirring is rather rot. Things aren’t a bit better for
being fussed over. In fact Father says most things come out better in
the end if they’re left alone. ‘Add salt to taste, and then serve.’ It
would have been more sensible to say ‘then eat.’ But I suppose serve is
a politer word. By the way, have you any salt?”
“Not a grain,” said Miss Rutherford. “I entirely forgot the salt.”
“It’s a pity,” said Priscilla, “that we didn’t think of putting in some
sea water. Potatoes are ripping when boiled in sea water and don’t need
any salt. Peter Walsh told me that once and I expect he knows, I never
tried myself.”
She glanced at the sea as she spoke, feeling that it was, perhaps, not
too late to add the necessary seasoning in its liquid form. A small
boat, under a patched lug sail, was crossing the mouth of the bay at the
moment. Priscilla sprang to her feet excitedly.
“That’s Flanagan’s old boat,” she said. “I’d know it a mile off. Jimmy!
Jimmy Kinsella!”
Jimmy was securing the anchor of the Tortoise. He looked round.
“Isn’t that Flanagan’s old boat?” said Priscilla.
“It is, Miss, surely. There’s ne’er another boat in the bay but herself
with the bit of an old flour sack sewed on along the leach of the sail.
It was only last week my da was saying----”
“We haven’t a moment to lose,” said Priscilla. “Miss Rutherford, you
help Frank down. I’ll run on and get up the foresail.”
“But the soup?” said Miss Rutherford, “and the peppermint creams, and
the rest of the luncheon?”
“If you feel that you can spare the peppermint creams,” said Priscilla,
“we’ll take them. But we can’t wait for the soup.”
“Take the bread, too,” said Miss Rutherford, “and the peaches. It won’t
delay you a minute to put in the peaches!”
“If you’re perfectly certain you don’t want them for yourself, we’ll be
very glad to have them.”
“Nothing would induce me to eat a Californian peach in selfish
solitude,” said Miss Rutherford, “I should choke if I tried.”
“Right,” said Priscilla. “You carry them down and sling them on board.
I’ll help Frank. Now, then, Cousin Frank, do stand up. I can’t drag you
down over the seaweed on your side. You’ve got to hop more or less.”
Miss Rutherford, with the loaf of bread, the peaches and the peppermint
creams in her hand, ran down to the boat. Frank and Priscilla followed
her. Jimmy had put the anchor on board and was holding the Tortoise with
her bow against the shingle.
“Take me, too,” said Miss Rutherford. “I love chasing spies more than
anything else in the world.”
“All right,” said Priscilla. “Bound in and get down to the stern. Now,
Frank, you’re next. Oh, do go on. Jimmy, give him a lift from behind.
I’ll steer this time.”
She hauled on the foresail halyard, got the sail up and made the rope
fast. Then she sprang to the stern, squeezed past Miss Rutherford and
took the tiller.
“Shove her off, Jimmy, wade in a bit and push her head round. I’ll go
off on the starboard tack and not have to jibe. Oh, Miss Rutherford,
don’t, please don’t sit on the main sheet.”
The business of getting a boat, which is lying head to wind to pay off
and sail away, is comparatively simple. The fact that the shore lies
a few yards to windward does not complicate the matter much. The main
sheet must be allowed to run out so that the sail does not draw at
first. The foresail, its sheet being hauled down, works the boat’s head
round. Unfortunately for Priscilla, her main sheet would not run
out. Miss Rutherford made frantic efforts not to sit on it, but only
succeeded in involving herself in a serious tangle. Jimmy Kinsella