The afternoon was spent in laying
in a store of provisions for the voyage, repairing the splintered door,
and mending one of the sweeps, which was on the point of breaking.
By sunset everything was in readiness for a start, and all hands were
gathered about the galley stove, each superintending the cooking of his
specialty for supper. Billy Brackett could make griddle-cakes, or
"nip-naps," as he called them. He fried them in an iron spider, and
the deftness with which he turned them, by tossing them in the air, so
excited the admiration of his raftmates that they immediately wished to
engage him as regular cook for the trip.
"This isn't a circumstance to what I can do in the culinary line,"
remarked Billy Brackett, modestly. "To know me at my best, you ought
to be around when I make biscuit. My heavy biscuit are simply
monuments of the baker's art. They are warranted to withstand any
climate, and defy the ravaging tooth of time. They can turn the edge
of sarcasm, and have that quality of mercy which endureth forever. A
quartz-crusher turns pale at sight of them, and they supply a permanent
filling for aching voids or long-felt wants. In fact, gentlemen, it is
universally acknowledged that my biscuit can't be beat."
"Neither can a bad egg," said Glen, who was trying to make an omelet.
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