the quarter-deck with a heavy sea runnin'. Every now and then
she'd scuff her toe in the rug, and how some of us escaped a soup or a
gravy bath I can't figure out. Maybe we were in luck.

Also, she don't mind reachin' in front of you and sidewipin' your ear
with her elbow. Accidents like that were merry little jokes to her.

"Ox-cuse me, Mister!" she'd pipe out shrill and childish, and then
indulged in a maniac giggle that would get Mrs. Robert grippin' the
chair arms.

She liked to be chatty and folksy while she was servin', too. Her motto
seemed to be, "Eat hearty and give the house a good name." If you
didn't, she tried to coax you into it, or it into you.

"Oh, do have some more of th' meat, Miss," she says to Vee. "And another
potato, now. Just one more, Miss."

And all Mrs. Robert can do is pink up, and when she's out of hearin'
apologize for her. "As you see," says Mrs. Robert, "she is hardly a
trained waitress."

"She'd make a swell auctioneer, though," I suggests.

"No doubt," says Mrs. Robert. "And I suppose I am fortunate enough to
have anyone in the kitchen at all, even to do the cooking--such as it
is."

"You ain't lonesome in feelin' that way," says I. "It seems to be a
general complaint."

Which brings out harrowin' tales of war-wrecked homes, where no buttling
had been done for months, where chauffeurs and gardeners were only
represented by stars on the service flag, and from which even personal
maids had gone to be stenographers and nurses. But chiefly it was the
missin' cook who was mourned. Some had quit to follow their men to
trainin' camps, a lot had copped out better payin' jobs, and others had
been lured to town, where they could get the fake war extras hot off the
press and earn higher wages as well.

Course, there were some substitute cooks--reformed laundresses, raw
amateurs and back numbers that should have reached the age limit long
before. And pretty awful cookin' they were gettin' away with. Vee had
heard of one who boiled the lettuce and sent in dog biscuit one mornin'
for breakfast cereal. Miss Gray told what happened at the Pemberton
Brookses when their kitchen queen had left for Bridgeport, where she had
a hubby makin' seventy-five dollars a week. The Brookses had lived for
three days on cream toast and sardines, which was all the upstairs girl
had in her culinary repertoire.

"And look at me," added Marion, "with our old family cook, who can make
the best things in the w