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Updated: May 11, 2025
"It will be no use telling anyone about this even if we do get out of here, they'll say that we have had a rarebit dream." "That's so," assented Lathrop, "and honestly, Billy, are you sure we are awake?" "Sure," replied the reporter giving himself a vicious pinch, and exclaiming "Ouch!" But there was no time to talk further.
Still there was no sign of Ruth or any member of her party! Barbara was wretched. She was now convinced that some accident had befallen them. "Come in, Barbara," called Harriet cheerfully. "The Welsh rarebit is done and it has to be eaten on the instant. I will make another for Ruth's crowd when they get in. They are certainly awfully slow in arriving." "Harriet!"
"A Welsh rarebit would be the death of me; lobsters are poison," he confessed; "but I've read that chorus-girls are carnivorous animals and seek their prey at midnight." "Most of them would prefer bread and milk; anyhow, I would. But I'm not hungry, so let's ride we can talk better, and you're not the sort of man to be seen in public with one of Bergman's show- girls."
The English people, who had always been fond of rabbit pie, and still eat thousands of Molly Cotton Tails every day, named it "Welsh Rabbit," and thought it one of the best things to eat. In fact, there are many people, who do not easily see a joke, who misunderstand the fun, or who suppose the name to be either slang, or vulgar, or a mistake, and who call it "rarebit."
Friends were not long in gathering about. She met a few young men who belonged to Lola's staff. The members of the opera company made her acquaintance without the formality of introduction. One of these discovered a fancy for her. On several occasions he strolled home with her. "Let's stop in and have a rarebit," he suggested one midnight. "Very well," said Carrie.
The party at home was an informal affair in which there were many cooks, but no broth spoiled. To see Mr. Southard earnestly engaged in making a Welsh rarebit, an accomplishment in which he claimed to be highly proficient, one would never have suspected him of being able to thrill vast audiences by his slightest word or gesture.
"Can the mender of ways—other people’s ways—come in?" asked a voice at the door. It was Mitchell’s voice, and he came in without waiting for an invitation. "Is it time that I went?" Mrs. Rosscott asked him, anxiously. "Half an hour yet." "Oh, I say Jack," cried Burnett, "let’s boil some water in the witch-hazel pan, and make a rarebit in the poultice pan, and have some tea here."
"La-la-la!" chanted Alice, about nothing in particular. The girls busied themselves getting tea. The kettle was soon singing on the gas stove, the crisp odor of toast had replaced the heavier one of cabbage, and the rarebit was almost ready to serve, when a step was heard out in the hall of the apartment house where the DeVere family had their New York home. "There's daddy!" exclaimed Alice.
He would whistle and joke over the preparations for a rarebit after a game, and would willingly walk five blocks for beer if Cherry had forgotten to get it. On Sunday he liked to see her prettily gowned; now and then they motored with his friends from the mine; more often walked, ate a hearty chicken dinner, and went to a cold supper in the neighbourhood, with "Five Hundred" to follow.
"Girls, how came you here?" "Behold the prodigal daughter! Shall we kill the fatted rarebit?" And Kitty threw herself upon me; while Cadge, waving her arms proudly at the Navajo rugs, stuffed heads of animals and vast canvasses of Indian braves and ponies that made the weird place more weird, replied to my query: "Borrowed it of an artist who's wintering in Mexico; cheap; just as it stands."
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