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The big man's larder was well stocked, and although Harry King did not appear to be a western man, he was a good camper, and could bake a corn dodger or toss a flapjack with a fair amount of skill. As he worked, everything seemed like a dream to him.
At last Johnston spoke: "To-morrow is the fatal day. Ralph has the look of an unsatisfied wolf; you are hungry, Harry; we are all hungry, and such is mortal man that at this moment my soul longs more than all things for even the most cindery flapjack that ever came out of a camp cook's frying-pan.
This contribution came, piecemeal, from several feasting mouths together. "Oh! the Housatonic blue Hous-a-tonic!" Pemrose bent demurely over her flapjack and cocoa, curling her toes under her as she recalled her view of it from the Devil's Chair. "And what about the second Get Together when is that to be?" she asked. "A week from Saturday: Jubilate!
That settles it for me; I've turned the last flapjack I'll ever turn for any man but myself." "How will you manage the oyster parlor?" "Well, I've just about give up that notion, Duke. I've been thinkin' I'll stick to the range and go in the sheep business." "I expect it would be a good move, old feller." "They're goin' into it around here, they tell me." "Alta tells you." "Oh, you git out!
However, the self-raising buckwheat flour makes an excellent flapjack, which is likewise good for your insides. The batter is rather thin, is poured into the piping hot greased pan, "flipped" when brown on one side, and eaten with larrupy-dope or brown gravy.
James in association with Tennessee and Partner over a board supplied with hog, flapjack and forty-rod awakes a bewildering pity in the mind. An hour of Colonel Starbottle would soil him for a week. He is not made for such contact. It is both curious and instructive to notice how the too-cultured sensitiveness of a man of genius has blinded him to the greatest truth in the human life about him.
"Who owns a bob-tailed pinto, saddle-galled, cast in th' near eye, Star Diamond brand, white stockin' on th' off front prop, with a habit of scratchin' itself every other minute?" went on Mr. Connors. "Slim Travennes," replied the proprietor, flopping a flapjack. Mr. Cassidy reflectively scratched the back of his hand and looked innocent, but his mind was working overtime. "Who's Slim Travennes?"
His camp-fire had burned out. Peace to his ashes. His wife, who had often played the part of Abigail toward travellers who had unconsciously incurred the old man's mistrust, now reigned in his stead; and there was great abundance of maple-syrup on every man's flapjack. The charm of Bartlett's for the angler was the stretch of rapid water in front of the house.
"Now I am an exper'; a real exper'! When I want to flip a flapjack I just whirl her up through the chimney and catch her by holdin' the frying pan out'n the window!" I found at another point a slender, beardless young chap, with bright black eyes, and hectic cheeks, engaged in sketching one of the miners who posed before him.
"I can make flapjacks," said Pee-wee; "I've got eight pounds of Indian meal." "How far would I have to hike to digest them?" Townsend asked. "You'd need a bigger island than this," said Brownie. "You couldn't digest a flapjack on anything smaller than South America." "Give me a piece of chocolate," said Townsend, "and a couple of prunes." "It looks nice up the river in the moonlight, doesn't it?"
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