CHAPTER XI.

“TARRY THE BAKING.”

It was rather wonderful how eagerly all the children took to Phoena’s idea of founding a Knighthood of the Order of Good Intentions.

The fact was that in one form or another it possessed distinct attractions for each member of that rather mixed company.

Notably to the schoolboys, to whom the prospect of being bound by a vow to pitch into all evil-doers was highly acceptable.

“Those young beggars who are always riling the farmer by making short cuts across his meadows will come under that head,” said Phil, “we’ll teach them the way they should go and no mistake.”

“That we will,” echoed Jack.

“Yes, but remember that you ought to meet your foes in fair fight,” remarked Faith. “Knights weren’t supposed to bully, you know.”

They were all indoors now, for the sultry heat of that oppressive summer day had ended in a tremendous thunder-storm, which had driven everyone, even the most ardent haymaker, under shelter. True, Phil and Jack were disappointed of their row on the river, and so was Andrew of his expedition into the lanes, where he had intended to besmear the tree trunks with the beer and treacle mixture he had been preparing, nevertheless all the boys resigned themselves very happily to their enforced imprisonment, so keen were they on discussing the details of Phoena’s scheme.

“Of course,” said Andrew, “as I’ve consented to be your Head it will be for me to draw up the laws by which our Order is to be governed.”

There was instantly a roar of dissentient voices, above which Phoena at length made herself heard.

“Perhaps if your name were Arthur instead of Andrew,” she said slowly, “it might seem a pity not to make you the King, but as it is, wouldn’t it be better for us all to agree that our King is absent--”

“Fighting the Paynims,” broke in Di.

“Exactly,” said Phoena, “and we should all be left on oath to defend the honour of the Round Table.”

“Yes, and couldn’t we make it this way?” suggested Fay; “that the King was to bestow golden spurs on the knight who could show the noblest record on his return?”

“The knights always had golden spurs, I think,” said Phoena, “I don’t think they were regular knights without them. But we might fix a certain trial time during which every knight must do his best to distinguish himself, and when the time is up we’ll appoint a special day and invest him with a grand Order of Merit and--”

“And have a big banquet,” put in Phil.

“Yes, a real stuff-and-sit-down jollification,” added Jack, “infants and all.”

“Yes, yes, infants and all,” chimed in those young parties.

“But please, how soon will that grand day be?” enquired Marygold.

“Ah! that will have to be settled,” said Faith.

“I was coming to that,” said Phoena; “you see we must allow the knights fair opportunity to win their laurels, so as we are here for at least a month, shall we say that the investiture--”

“Please is that the name of what we shall eat,” asked Hubert.

“Little boys shouldn’t interrupt,” said Phoena, severely. “I was going to say, shall we fix the grand day for this day fortnight? That will give a clear twelve week-days for all to achieve their noble exploits.”

Unanimous cries of “Yes.”

“But,” said Faith, “how are we to settle who has done the noblest deed?”

“That will be my business,” said Andrew.

“Cock-a-doodle-do,” broke in Phil, “hark to the Biddie Tom.”

“Of course it will be,” asserted Andrew, “I’m the eldest of you all, except Fay, and she’s only a girl, of course it’s my right.”

“Bosh,” said Jack, “if only one person is to decide, then it ought to be Phoena, she knows the most about the Round Table laws, and besides _she’s_ sure not to be sneaky.”

“Be what?” cried Andrew, springing up, “say that again and I’ll--”

“Get another jolly good licking, eh?” retorted Phil.

“If you don’t shut up, Miss Annie, we’ll turn you out of this,” said Jack.

“I shall decline to have any share in the business,” said Andrew, “if I’m not properly treated.”

“Which would be, of course,” remarked Jack, “to give you another licking, but it’s too much fag.”

“You wretched boys,” cried Di, “can’t you manage to be ten minutes together without fighting? Oh! take care, that nearly hit me,” as Andrew flung Mrs. Busson’s best crazy patchwork cushion at Jack’s head, via Diana’s.

“I’m very much afraid that there will have to be another free fight,” said Phil, drawing a long face, and straightway making himself ready to battle.

“There need be no fight at all,” Andrew struggled to say from under a woollen anti-macassar, which Phil had thrown over his head off the back of his chair. “It’s my right to be the head of everything, and you ought to support me, Faith.” He was wriggling now in Phil’s clutches.

“Well, did I ever!” exclaimed Mrs. Busson, appearing in the doorway, “talk of a Welsh Fair, all this noise would beat it to pancakes. Well, you are young gentlemen to talk, and no mistake.”

“To fight, you mean, you dear old Busson, only you’re too civil to say so,” laughed Phil.

“_Fight!_ I should hope not indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Busson, “whatever could you find to fight about, the idea!”

“We are not exactly fighting,” began Andrew, grandly.

“What a cracker!” cried Jack.

“We were only differing,” protested Andrew, “I was trying to--”

“Oh, please Mrs. Busson, do hear what a beautiful plan we are making,” said Phoena, “if you can stay to listen that is, for I daresay we may have to get you to help us in carrying it out.”

“And very glad I’ll be to help you any way I can,” said Mrs. Busson, “so just you tell me what it’s all about.”

To anyone less enthusiastic in her cause than Phoena it would have seemed rather a formidable undertaking to initiate worthy Mrs. Busson into the mysteries of the Round Table lore, but not so to Phoena.

True, she wisely confined herself to giving the merest outline of the scheme, and laid the chief stress upon the two leading features in the programme, namely, the promised distinction to be awarded to the noblest deed and the grand ceremony which should celebrate that function.

And, wonderful to relate, instead of being fast asleep by the time that Phoena had finished her story, Mrs. Busson was keenly awake and alive to the situation, as her first remark satisfactorily proved.

“Well now, I call that quite the prettiest bit of play-acting I’ve ever heard of,” she declared, “and nothing to quarrel over, I’m sure.”

“Oh, it was only Andrew trying to be disagreeable,” said Di, “he always wants to be first, you know, in everything.”

“Now isn’t it strange?” said the old farmer’s wife, “how, ever since the Bible days, when the good Lord chid His disciples for just such disputing amongst themselves, there’s never been a little company but what one of them has wanted to be first. There,” went on Mrs. Busson, smoothing down the folds of her black silk apron, which was the badge of her “evening dress,” “you children put me in mind of something that happened in my young days, when I wasn’t much older than Miss Fay.”

“Oh! tell us about it,” said Di.

“Well, we were all over at grandfather’s farm, a number of girl cousins, for it was the day before Harvest Home, and we always went to help prepare the supper for next day, Dear me! what a sight of roasting, and stewing, and boiling, and baking there was to be done, for grandfather never would allow of any stint, everyone on the place was feasted. But to come to what I was going to tell you.

“There were about a dozen of us girls in the kitchen, and for want of knowing better, we all fell to squabbling as to who could make the best puff-pastry, and we grew that spiteful against each other that from saying ugly things about each other’s pastry, we finished by saying them about each other.

“There, we got to such high words that I can’t tell where it would have ended if grandmother had not come into the kitchen and stopped us, short and sharp.

“‘Now, listen,’” she said, “‘this very evening, when the rest of the cooking is all done, I’ll have each one of you make a bit of pastry after your own fashion, and the piece that _I_ say turns out the best shall be called the best in this house for ever after. So now not another sound from any of you chattermags till your pastry has been into the oven and out of it again.’

“And though we all in turn tried to make the old lady say that our own particular recipe was bound to turn out the best, she had only one answer for us all:

“‘Tarry the baking, and then the best will be _called_ the best.’”

“And was yours the best?” asked Fay.

“No, my dear, my cousin Rachel it was who won the day. But grandmother’s saying of ‘tarry the baking’ came to be our favourite proverb ever after whenever we were tempted to be over hasty in settling how any matter was going to turn out. And so,” wound up Mrs. Busson, “that is what I say to you, my dears, don’t spoil everything by being in too great a hurry to make a king amongst you. Just wait patiently, and all give each other a fair chance, and then, when you’ve really settled it amongst yourselves, we’ll have a grand day. Trust me to make you a regular feast, with junkets, and syllabubs, and all manner of good things. And I wouldn’t be surprised that when the day comes you’ll all have done so well that you’ll have to be crowned kings and queens together. And now,” added Mrs. Busson, moving to the door, “I’ll go and see if Rob has brought in the half sieve of cherries that I thought wouldn’t come amiss to you staying indoors this wet evening.” And though as Mrs. Busson disappeared, the elders of the party agreed that “all being crowned kings and queens together” was not exactly the object that they had in view, they all, Andrew only excepted, fully concurred in the wisdom of her recommendation to “tarry the baking.”