It read:

UNITED ORDER OF PASTRY COOKS OF THE WORLD

Taken somewhat aback, Mr. Stott said feebly:

"Very nice, indeed--er----"

"Mr. Hicks, at your service!" the cook supplemented, bowing formally.

"Hicks," Mr. Stott added.

"Just take a second longer and say 'Mister.'"

The cook eyed him in such a fashion as he administered the reprimand for
his familiarity that Mr. Stott backed off without mentioning his
starving condition.

"What did he say?" they asked, eagerly, as he sat down on his platform,
somewhat crestfallen.

"He seems a temperamental person," Mr. Stott replied, evasively. "But we
shall have breakfast in due season."

It was suspected that Mr. Stott had failed in his mission, and they were
sure of it as the hands dragged around to eight-thirty.

At that hour precisely Mr. Hicks came out and hammered on a triangle as
vigorously as if it were necessary. In spite of their efforts to appear
unconcerned when it jangled, the haste of the guests was nothing less
than indecent as they hurried to the dining room and scrambled for seats
at the table.

The promise of food raised their spirits a trifle and Mr. Appel was able
to say humorously as, with his table knife, he scalped his agate-ware
plate loose from the oil-cloth:

"I suppose we shall soon learn the customs of the country. In a month we
should all be fairly well ac'climated."

"Acclim'ated," Mr. Stott corrected.

"Ac'climated," Mr. Appel maintained, obstinately. "At least with your
kind permission I shall continue to so pronounce it."

"I beg your pardon," Mr. Stott apologized with elaborate sarcasm, "but
when I am wrong I like to be told of it." Which was not the strict truth
for the reason that no one ever was able to convince him that he ever
was mistaken. As a result of the discussion everyone was afraid to use
the word for fear of offending one or the other.

The silence that followed while breakfast was being placed upon the
table was broken by Miss Eyester, who said timidly:

"In the night I thought I heard something sniffing, and it frightened
me."

Not to be outdone in sensational experiences, Mrs. Stott averred
positively:

"There was some _wild animal_ running over our tent. I could hear its
sharp claws sticking into the canvas. A coyote, I fancy."

"A ground-squirrel, more likely," remarked Mr. Appel.

Mr. Stott smiled at him:

"Squee-rrel, if you will allow me to again correct you."

"I guess I can't help mysel