Belles on their Toes

apples, though," said Ernestine, coming to her rescue.
    "Apples?" said Bill, as if he were reading a part in which he had been carefully coached. "That sounds simply capital."
    "Bully," said Frank in the same tone of voice. "I've a suggestion to make, Mother. Why don't you make us an apple cake, for a change?"
    "Cease and desist," Mother laughed. "The children are teasing me," she explained. "I'm really not much of a cook. Apple cake is about the extent of my repertoire."
    The newsreel man said he was sure Mother was being too modest, and that apple cake would be splendid.
    The scene in the parlor went fine. Of course the movies were silent, and everything was done in pantomime.
    Then we adjourned to the kitchen, and the men were impressed with the arrangement of the appliances.
    "I don't see why you hesitated a minute about having pictures made of this," the man in charge said. "Women are going to go crazy when they see is setup."
    "Of course the stove isn't what it should be, and neither is the refrigerator," Mother explained. "I want a stove that stands up high, so you don't have bend over to see what's in the oven. And I want a refrigerator that you don't have to lean into."
    The lights were adjusted, and Mother stood in the center of the working space. She lighted the oven.
    She pared and cored the apples with a gadget Mr. Yoyogo had made for her. She mixed and sifted the dry ingredients, and she greased the pan. So far, not more than four or five steps. The camera ground away.
    Then she opened the refrigerator door, leaned in, and picked up two eggs with one hand, and a bottle of milk with the other. Just as she started to bring them out, Fourteen appeared from under a table, and jumped. She landed on the small of Mother's back.
    "Eyow," Mother screamed. She threw her hands up over her head, and scattered dairy products from the breakfast nook to the butler's pantry.
    "Cut!" roared the head of the newsreel crew. "What in the devil goes on here?"
    "Who did that?" Mother shouted accusingly to Frank and Bill. "It's all right to tease, but Mercy Maude!"
    Fourteen strutted across the top of the refrigerator, obviously proud of herself. Mother looked at the cat as if trying to decide whether to wring her neck now, or wait until the company had gone.
    "I'm sorry, boys," she said. "I should have known you wouldn't have done it, at a time like this."
    We couldn't help but giggle. And the cameramen, who had been trying not to laugh, exploded.
    "Down, Fourteen," said Mother, still a little indignant and making an ineffectual swipe or two at the cat. "Down I say, Sir."
    Fourteen who knew Mother well enough to be certain nothing would come from the swipes, continued strutting. Mother reached over the sink to the shelf where Tom kept his Quinine Remedy, and the cat jumped down and slunk out of the room.
    Mother started chuckling herself, and then she had an awful thought. A few years before, a newsreel company had taken some pictures of us at the dinner table in Nantucket. When they were released they were preceded by a caption saying: "The family of Frank B. Gilbreth, time-saver, eats dinner." Then the action was projected at about ten times the normal speed, while the theater audiences howled.
    "I want you to promise me," Mother said to the man in charge, "that you won't show the part with the cat."
    "Good night, lady, I know you've got eleven mouths to feed," he protested. "I wouldn't do you like that."
    He kept his word, too.
    Ernestine and Martha mopped up the eggs and milk, and Mother started in again, at the point where she leaned into the refrigerator.
    Tom picked that particular Saturday to return early from West Orange. It always made him nervous, anyway, to be away from the younger children for too long, since he was convinced no one else looked after them properly. He also was sure that, as soon as he left the house, we turned his room and kitchen upside down, looking for candy or for future surprises that he might have hidden from us. Having left home earlier than usual, he apparently had decided that he'd better get back earlier, too, and check up on us.
    He came in the back door, just as Mother was putting her cake in the oven. His first glance at the rearranged kitchen confirmed everything he had suspected. He stood there glowering, until the final cut.
    "Oh, good afternoon, Tom," Mother said guiltily as she stepped out of the work space.
    "What's happened to my kitchen?" Tom demanded. "And who scared my cat