The tent was similar to those which gipsies use--not with a central pole,
but stretched over half-hoops which were stuck in the ground. It was wide
enough for three boys to lie comfortably in their sleeping-bags side by
side. Gregory was to sleep in the caravan with the girls; Kink was to go to
Woodstock.
Meanwhile, with all of them, except Mary and Gregory, who had done well
with Mrs. Gosden's tea, the pangs of hunger were at work, and the steam of
the great iron pot hanging over the fire did nothing to allay them. Mary
and Janet every now and then thrust a fork into the meat, but its
resistance to the point was heart-breaking.
"Hadn't you better have some biscuits to go on with?" Janet said at last;
but the others refused. It would spoil the stew, they thought.
"At any rate," Janet said, "let's get everything ready, not only for
supper,"-- you see, it wasn't called dinner any longer,--"but for
washing-up afterwards."
So Kink went off for some more water, and a large basin was set on a box,
and dishcloths were put by it; and a rackety search began for plates, and
knives and forks, and mugs, and tinned fruits, and more plates and spoons
and moist sugar, and all the other things which appear on our tables at
mealtimes as naturally as leaves on the trees, but which in a caravan mean
so much fuss and perplexity.
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