The men became seriously interested, and worked themselves red and hot; the ladies soon gave it up, and sat down on the sand and began to talk. They all owned themselves hungry, and from time to time they looked up anxiously at the preparations for lunch on the ledge, where white napkins were spread, with bottles at the four corners to keep them from blowing away. This use of the bottles was considered very amusing; the ladies tried to make jokes about it, and the desire to be funny spread to certain of the men who had quietly left off throwing at the stake because they had wrenched their shoulders; they succeeded in being merry. They said they thought that coffee took a long time to boil. A lull of expectation fell upon all; even Mavering sat down on the rocks near the fire, and was at rest a few minutes, by order of Miss Anderson, who said that the sight of his activity tired her to death. “I wonder why always boiled ham at a picnic!” said the lady who took a final plate of it from a basket. “Under the ordinary conditions, few of us can be persuaded to touch it.” “It seems to be dear to nature, and to nature's children,” said Mrs. Brinkley. “Perhaps because their digestions are strong.” “Don't you wish that something could be substituted for it?” asked Miss. Cotton. “There have been efforts to replace it with chicken and tongue in sandwiches;” said Mrs. Brinkley; “but I think they've only measurably succeeded--about as temperance drinks have in place of the real strong waters.” “On the boat coming up,” said Mavering, “we had a troupe of genuine darky minstrels. One of them sang a song about ham that rather took me-- “'Ham, good old ham! Ham is de best ob meat; It's always good and sweet; You can bake it, you can boil it, You can fry it, you can broil it--Ham, good old ham!'” “Oh, how good!” sighed Mrs. Brinkley. “How sincere! How native! Go on, Mr. Mavering, for ever.” “I haven't the materials,” said Mavering, with his laugh. “The rest was da capo. But there was another song, about a coloured lady--” “'Six foot high and eight foot round, Holler ob her foot made a hole in de ground.'” “Ah, that's an old friend,” said Mrs. Brinkley. “I remember hearing of that coloured lady when I was a girl. But it's a fine flight of the imagination. What else did they sing?” “I can't remember. But there was something they danced--to show how a rheumatic old coloured uncle dances.” He jumped nimbly up, and sketched the stiff and limping figure he had seen. It was over in a flash. He dropped down again, laughing. “Oh, how wonderfully good!” cried Mrs. Brinkley, with frank joy. “Do it again.” “Encore! Oh, encore!” came from the people on the beach. Mavering jumped to his feet, and burlesqued the profuse bows of an actor who refuses to repeat; he was about to drop down again amidst their wails of protest.