In fact, all the children returned home with a vastly increased respect for the ability and punctuality of Collins and Eliza Pollard and Jan Masters.
For a while the air was simply full of questions and remarks, some of which I copy down, and you may guess who asked them.
"I say, Janet, where's the tin-opener ?" "Janet, dear, ought we to have napkins ?" "Hester, you little nuisance, get off that box; it's got the bread in it." "Hester, stop reading and come and help." "Horace, the fire's nearly out." "I wish some of you would stop talking and tell me where the tin-opener is." "Jack, you lazy ruffian, why don't you get some more sticks ?" "I say, Kink, do you think this old brisket will ever be done ?" "Kink, does it ruin potatoes and things to stew too long ?" "Kink, is there any decent way of opening a tin without a tin-opener ?" "I'm perfectly certain the sugar was in this cupboard.

Gregory, have you been at the sugar ?" "It's a good deal harder than a rock, still." "Can you make a tin-opener out of a fork ?" "I am perfectly certain I saw the corkscrew this morning." "Oh, I say, I didn't come out in this old caravan to die of hunger and neglect." "Mary, where did you put the milkjug ?" "Let's have that beast of a brisket out and cut him up, and put him in again in smaller pieces." "Oh, Jack, how clever you are! However did you think of that ?" "I expect it's hunger sharpening his wits." "I say, it's all very well to say cut him up small; but he's red hot.
I'm scalded horribly." "So am I." "Yes, and so am I, the way you make him jump about.

It splashed right over here." "Kink, come and help us hold the brisket down while we cut him up." The result of all this confusion was the appointment of two or three new officials.

Horace was made Keeper of the Tinopener, and Gregory Keeper of the Cork screw, while Jack was given the title of Preserver of Enough Oil in the Beatrice Stove, because you can do wonders with a Beatrice stove while waiting for the real fire to burn up--but only if there's oil in it.
Jack's brilliant device of slicing the brisket was successful, and by half-past seven they were seated on their rugs round the fire eating the most supreme stew of the century, as Mary Rotheram called it.

They ate it in soup-plates, with a great deal of juice, into which they dropped their bread.
Suddenly old Kink, who had been eating steadily for a quarter of an hour just outside the circle, stepped up to what we may call the supper-table, with his watch in his hand.
"Miss Janet," he said, "there's only a quarter of an hour to get to Woodstock to send off the telegram." Janet looked at the official telegraphist in alarm.