Belles on their Toes

her sophomore year at Smith. Dad wasn't a college man himself, but had believed that two colleges were better than one. At Dad's suggestion, Anne had made plans to transfer that fall to The University of Michigan.
    Ernestine had graduated from high school the night before Dad died. She was registered at Smith and was to start taking her college board examinations in a couple of days.
    We knew Mother wouldn't allow either of the girls to change plans. She insisted that somehow or other she was going to send all of us through college. Dad had wanted that.
    As for our getting odd jobs to contribute to the income, maybe that would come later. For the time being, at least for the summer, all the older ones would be needed at home.
    "I don't have to tell you," Anne said, looking significantly at the bigger children, "that a lot depends on how things go this summer."
    "I wouldn't want anyone to adopt me, would you Dan?" Fred asked. Fred was seven and he and Dan, who was one year younger, were inseparable.
    "Heck, no," said Dan. "I wouldn't let anyone adopt me, Would you, Fred?"
    "Where did you ever get an idea like that?" Anne asked. "Nobody's going to be adopted, especially if everything goes smoothly while Mother's gone."
    By the time that Tom announced lunch was ready, all of the duties had been allocated and the new economy budget was in balance.
    It was Ernestine's turn to bring in the food. She eyed askance a leg of lamb that she carried in from the kitchen. It was burned almost black and was festooned with charred tomato halves, which looked as if they had become a part of the lamb—a part that needed lancing and bandages.
    Ernestine was the only member of the family who didn't get along well with Tom. They had had a running feud that had started years before, when she had proudly presented him a picture of herself and he had announced that he intended to hang it in the pantry as a rat repellent.
    Now, without saying anything, but with the face of a martyr who intended to cooperate if it meant poisoning all of us, Ernestine placed the platter in front of Anne.
    Anne was caught off guard. "What," she shouted in genuine alarm, "is that? Get it out of here quickly, you hear me? And tell Tom no one is in the mood for his jokes."
    "It is supposed to be a leg of lamb," Ernestine said through pursed lips.
    "How do you know?" Anne challenged distrustfully.
    "I asked him and that's what he said. Leg of lamb."
    Anne turned the platter around, studying the contents from all angles. "Any lamb with a leg like that," she said, "had better see a veterinarian."
    "I'm beginning to think we should have kept the cook and got rid of that man," Ernestine announced.
    "Hush!" Anne warned. "He'll hear you."
    "I don't care if he does."
    Tom appeared red faced and furious at the butler's pantry door.
    "You don't, eh," he shouted, reaching behind him to untie his apron. "All right, just for that I quit."
    Tom sometimes quit as often as three times in a single day, so the dramatic announcement didn't have too much effect.
    "I don't have to work here, you know," he continued. "I ain't no slave." He took off the apron and waved it in Ernestine's face.
    "No one wants you to quit," Anne told him. "We all know we couldn't get along without Tom, don't we Ernestine?"
    Ernestine caught Anne's threatening glance and finally nodded reluctantly. "I suppose so," she said.
    "There," Anne smiled sweetly. "You see?"
    "What's the matter with the lamb?" Tom asked, somewhat mollified.
    "Nothing," Anne replied, "except that it seems just a mite well done. We like our lamb just a little rarer."
    "It's lamb rangoon," said Tom, as if that clinched the argument. "And lamb rangoon has to be well done."
    "Well why didn't you say so?" Anne asked. "That explains everything."
    "Nobody never gives me a chance to explain nothing around here, that's why," Tom mumbled, as he disappeared into the kitchen, tying his apron back on. "You work and slave to make them a special dish like lamb rangoon and then they try to fire you. After seventeen years with the family, too."
    "It still looks like something that had better not be touched until the coroner arrives," Ernestine whispered.
    "Lamb rangoon," Anne muttered. "I've seen rubber boots that looked more appetizing." Then, realizing that as the oldest she was setting a bad example, she started carving, and added: "I'll bet it's good, though."
    "Yummy," said Martha sarcastically.
    "We'll try to get the cooking straightened out