The coffee pot was filled and placed across the logs at one end, and
left to its own devices a little removed from the hottest of the fire.
The kettle stood next, half filled with salted water, in which nestled
the potatoes like so many nested eggs. Mary mixed a mysterious
concoction of corn meal, eggs, butter, and some white powder, mushing
the whole up with milk and water. The mixture she spread evenly in the
bottom of the frying pan, which she set in a warm place.
"It isn't much of a baking tin," she commented, eyeing it critically,
"but it'll do."
Under her direction Bennington impaled the two slices of ham on long
green switches, and stuck these upright in the ground in such a
position that the warmth from the flames could just reach them.
"They'll never cook there," he objected.
"Didn't expect they would," she retorted briefly. Then relenting,
"They finish better if they're warmed through first," she explained.
By this time the potatoes were bubbling energetically and the coffee
was sending out a fragrant steam. Mary stabbed experimentally at the
vegetables with a sharpened sliver. Apparently satisfied, she drew back
with a happy sigh.
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