The outer door of the cellar was open, and they proceeded down some steps with their treasure. There was plenty of light; the cellar was high-walled, warm, and dry. They named it an ideal place. Two huge cylindrical furnaces were humming away, one at either end. Overhead the beams detonated with the different emotions which agitated the tea party. Jimmie worked like a stoker, and soon there was a fine bright fire in the stove. The fuel was of small brittle sticks which did not make a great deal of smoke. "Now what'll we cook?" cried little Cora. "What'll we cook, Jim? We must have something to cook, you know." "Potatoes?" said Jimmie. But the angel child made a scornful gesture. "No. I've cooked 'bout a million potatoes, I guess. Potatoes aren't nice any more." Jimmie's mind was all said and done when the question of potatoes had been passed, and he looked weakly at his companion. "Haven't you got any turnips in your house?" she inquired, contemptuously. "In _my_ house we have _turnips_." "Oh, turnips!" exclaimed Jimmie, immensely relieved to find that the honor of his family was safe. "Turnips? Oh, bushels an' bushels an' bushels! Out in the shed." "Well, go an' get a whole lot," commanded the angel child. "Go an' get a whole lot. Grea' big ones. _We_ always have grea' big ones." Jimmie went to the shed and kicked gently at a company of turnips which the frost had amalgamated. He made three journeys to and from the cellar, carrying always the very largest types from his father's store. Four of them filled the oven of little Cora's stove. This fact did not please her, so they placed three rows of turnips on the hot top. Then the angel child, profoundly moved by an inspiration, suddenly cried out, "Oh, Jimmie, let's play we're keepin' a hotel, an' have got to cook for 'bout a thousand people, an' those two furnaces will be the ovens, an' I'll be the chief cook--" "No; I want to be chief cook some of the time," interrupted Jimmie. "No; I'll be chief cook my own self. You must be my 'sistant. Now I'll prepare 'em--see? An' then you put 'em in the ovens. Get the shovel. We'll play that's the pan. I'll fix 'em, an' then you put 'em in the oven. Hold it still now." Jim held the coal-shovel while little Cora, with a frown of importance, arranged turnips in rows upon it. She patted each one daintily, and then backed away to view it, with her head critically sideways. "There!" she shouted at last. "That'll do, I guess. Put 'em in the oven." Jimmie marched with his shovelful of turnips to one of the furnaces. The door was already open, and he slid the shovel in upon the red coals. "Come on," cried little Cora. "I've got another batch nearly ready." "But what am I goin' to do with these?" asked Jimmie. "There ain't only one shovel." "Leave 'm in there," retorted the girl, passionately. "Leave 'm in there, an' then play you're comin' with another pan. 'Tain't right to stand there an' _hold_ the pan, you goose."