"Yes," said Tom, "I remember that too." He was just about biting into a
large slice of bread and butter _without_ jam--I had kept to old rules
and told the boys they must eat one big piece "plain," first--when a new
idea struck him.

"Audrey," he said, "do you know what would be lovely? Supposing we made
toast. I don't think there's _anything_ so nice as toast with strawberry
jam."

Tom looked at me with so touching an expression in his dark eyes--he
might have been making some most pathetic request--that I really could
not resist him. Besides which, to confess the truth, the proposal found
great favour in my own eyes. I looked consideringly at the ready-cut
slices of bread and butter.

"They're very thick for toast," I said, "and the worst of it is they're
all buttered already."

"_That_ wouldn't matter," said Tom, "it'd be buttered toast. That's the
nicest of all."

"It _wouldn't_, you stupid boy," I said, forgetting my dignity; "the
butter would all melt before the bread was toasted, and there'd be no
butter at all when it was done. But I'll tell you what we might do;
let's scrape off all the butter we can, and then spread it on the toast
again when it's ready, before the fire. That's how I've seen Pierson do.
I mean that she spread it on before the fire--of course she didn't have
to scrape it off first."

"I should think not," said Tom; "it's only that horrid Mrs. Partridge
makes us have to do such things."

We set to work eagerly enough however, notwithstanding our indignation.
With the help of our tea-spoons we scraped off a good deal of butter and
put it carefully aside ready to be spread on again.

"The worst of it is it'll be such awfully thick toast," I said, looking
at the sturdy slices with regret. "I wish we could split them."

"But we can't," said Tom, "we've no knife. What a shame it is not to let
us have a knife, not even _you_, Audrey, and I'm sure you are big
enough."

"I've a great mind to keep one back from dinner to-morrow," I said, "I
don't believe they'd notice. Tom, it's rather fun having to plan so,
isn't it? It's something like being prisoners, and Mrs. Partridge being
the--the-- I don't know what they call the man that shuts up the
prisoners."

"Pleeceman?" said Racey.

"No, I don't mean that. The policeman only takes them to prison, he
doesn't keep them when they are once there. But let's get on with the
toast, or our tea'll be all cold before we're ready for it."

[Illustra