The invitations were given informally, though long in advance, to a midday dinner on the first day of "Court-week,"--a day set apart by common consent in hundreds of counties, for a general flocking to town. The guests selected were--according to Caleb, who was consulted when the plan was first formed--the ten most virulent feminine gossips in the county. Black Sam's wife had been employed to assist for the day at cooking and serving, and among the dishes were many which would be entirely new to the guests. At one end of the table sat Grace, "dressed," as one of the guests said afterwards, "as all-fired as a gal that was expectin' her feller, an' was boun' to make him pop the question right straight off." At the other end of the table was Mrs. Taggess, plainly attired, except for her habitual smile, and at either side sat five as differing shapes--except for sharp features and inquiring eyes--as could be found anywhere. One wore black silk with much affectation of superiority to the general herd, but the others seemed to have prepared for a wild competition in colors of raiment and ribbons, and one had succeeded in borrowing for the day the original and many-colored silk of Mrs. Hawk Howlaway, described in an early chapter of this narrative. The guests did full justice to the repast. One by one they became mystified by the number of courses, for they had expected pie or pudding to follow the first dish. Some began to be apprehensive of the future, but with the fine determination characteristic of "settlers," good and bad alike, they continued to ply knife and fork and spoon. For some time the efforts of the hostess and Mrs. Taggess to encourage conversation were unrewarded, though some of the guests exchanged questions and comments in guarded tones. All acted with the apparent unconcern of the North American Indian; but curiosity, a tricky quality at best, suddenly compelled one gaunt woman to exclaim, as she contemplated the dish before her and raised it to her prominent nose:-- "What on airth is that stuff, I'd like to know?" "That is lobster salad," Grace replied. "Oh! I couldn't somehow make out what kind of an animile the meat come off of." "Nuther could I," said her vis-à-vis, with a full mouth, "but I'm goin' to worry my ole man to raise some of 'em on the farm, for it's powerful good, an' no mistake." A buzz of assent went round the table; the ice was broken, so another guest said:-- "Mis' Somerton, I've been dyin' to know what that there soup was made of that we begun on. I never tasted anythin' so good in all my born days." "Indeed? I'm very glad you liked it. 'Twas made of crawfish." A score of knives and forks clattered upon plates, and ten women assumed attitudes of amazement and consternation. Finally one of them succeeded in gasping:-- "Them little things that bores holes 'longside the crick? the things that boys makes fish-bait of?"