"Burgoo? _Barbecue?_" Marian spoke the mystic words over, bewildered.

"What is a barbecue, pray? Two such grim, ferocious words I never heard."

"A barbecue is a country-side picnic, where the company unite to buy a huge piece of beef; sometimes a whole ox. Then they roast it in a trench floored with hot stones. The usual time for a barbecue is in August. Then they add roasting ears and new potatoes to the beef, and have a dinner fit for a king."

"Or for an ogre," returned Marian. "It sounds like a feast for giants.

Yet a burgoo sounds even fiercer and more barbaric. I shall ask the commodore what it means, the minute he comes. Wasn't he a dear to think of taking us?"

Bright and early, even as he had promised, Mr. McCloskey's trig little launch puffed up to the camp landing. The commodore, arrayed as Solomon in snowy linen, a red tie, and a large Panama, waved greeting.

Beside him sat Mrs. McCloskey, her sweet little old face beaming under her crisp frilled sunbonnet.

The two girls stepped aboard, with Finnegan prancing joyfully after.

For to-day the Burford babies were to stay at home with Mammy, while Finnegan was to attend the burgoo, a specially bidden guest.

"And now, Mr. McCloskey! Tell us quick! What may a burgoo be?"

"A burgoo?" Commodore McCloskey reflected. "Well, then, so ye don't know a burgoo by experience. Wherever was ye brought up? A burgoo is a burgoo, sure. 'Tis the only word in the English language that describes it. 'Tis sack-races, an' pole-climbin', an' merry-go-rounds, an' pink limonade, an' a bra.s.s band, an' kettles full of b'iled chicken an' gravy, an' more mortial things to eat than the tongue of man can name. Ye must see it to understand the real po'try of it. For the half of it could not be told to you."

The commodore was quite right. The burgoo was all that he had claimed, and more. At least two hundred people, gay in their Sunday best, had already gathered at the county picnic grounds, a beautiful open woodland several miles up the Illinois River. Vendors of candy and popcorn, toy balloons and pink lemonade, shouted their wares. A vast merry-go-round wheezed and sputtered; the promised bra.s.s band awoke the river echoes. And, swung in a mighty rank above a row of camp-fires cleverly built in a broad shallow trench, the burgoo kettles sizzled and steamed.

"Burgoo," the girls soon learned, is the local name for a delicious stew of chicken and bacon and vegetables, cooked slowly for hours, then served in wooden bowls with huge dill pickles and corn pone.

Sally Lou, housekeeper born, wheedled the head cook, a courteous, grizzled old negro, into giving her the recipe. Marian, chuckling inwardly, heard his painstaking reply.

"Yes'um. I kin tell you jest how to go about makin' burgoo. First you want sixteen, maybe twenty, pounds of bacon, cut tolerable fine. Then four dozen chickens won't be too many. Start your meats a-b'ilin'.

Then peel your taters--I used three bushel for this batch. Then put in tomatoes. I reckon two dozen cans might do, though three would be better. Then cabbage, an' beans, an' onions, if you like. Two dozen head of cabbage is about right. An' two bushels of beans----"

Just then Sally Lou dropped her pencil in despair.

"I'll be no more than a head of cabbage myself, if I keep on trying to reduce this recipe to the needs of two people," she groaned in desperation. "Come along, Marian, let's climb on the merry-go-round a while and see if it won't clear my addled brain."

The merry-go-round proved delightfully thrilling, especially to Mr.

Finnegan, who rode round and round in a gilded sea-sh.e.l.l, barking himself hoa.r.s.e in dizzy ecstasy.

Just before noon the crowd, now astonishingly large, gathered at the little running track to watch the sports. First came the sack-races; then the pole-climbing; then the potato-race. Finnegan, by this time delirious with excitement, had to be held down by main force to discourage his wild ambition to take an active part in each event.

Last on the programme came the greased-pig race.

Now, the greased-pig race dates back a hundred years and more, to the days when the Kentucky pioneers met for their rare frolics of house-raising or corn-husking. It is a quaint old sport, very rough, very grimy and breathless, very ridiculously funny. A lively little pig is chosen and greased with melted tallow from head to tail. Then he is set free on the running-track. Half a minute later, the starting-gun booms the signal for his hunters to dash in pursuit. The winner must capture piggy with his bare hands and carry the squirming, slippery armful back to the judges' stand. If piggy escapes en route, the race must be run over again from the very start.

The compet.i.tors are boys and young men. Only the fleet-footed can hope for a chance at success. But even as the starter stood calling the race through his big red megaphone, a tall, elderly man shouldered up to their group and hailed Mr. McCloskey.

"Good-day, commodore! You're here to see the greased-pig race? My faith, do you remember the race that we two ran, down in Pike County in '63?"

The commodore beamed at his old neighbor.

"'Deed an' I do. And it was meself that captured that elegant pig, I remember."

"You did that. But it was by accident entirely. For I had all but laid my hand on the pig when you s.n.a.t.c.hed it from under my grasp. I've grudged ye that pig ever since."

The little commodore's eyes snapped. He bristled from the crest of his white head to the toes of his polished boots. His voice took on an ominously silver tone.

"By my word, I'm sorry to learn that that small pig has stood between us all these years, Mister Jennings. If it could give you satisfaction, I'd beg you to run that race over again with me. Or, we might race each other in the contest that is just about to take place.

What do ye say?"

For a minute, the astounded Mr. Jennings found nothing whatever to say.

"Now, commodore!" protested gentle Mrs. McCloskey, round-eyed with reproach. "You'd not think of runnin' a half mile this hot noon in the face of all your friends an' neighbors, an' all for one small pig! And you seventy last month, an' that suit of clothes bought new from Saint Louis not the fortnight ago!"

"You don't understand, Mary. I'd run the race if there was no pig at all under consideration, so it would give my friend Mister Jennings peace of mind," said the little commodore hotly. "What do ye say, sir?

Will you join me, an' prove once more which one of us is the rale winner?"

Very red and disconcerted, Mr. Jennings stood on one foot, then the other, in a torture of indecision. Then he threw off his coat.

"I've never taken a dare like that yet, McCloskey. And I don't begin now. Come along."

"Commodore!" Poor Mrs. McCloskey's shocked voice pursued him. But the commodore would not hear. Mr. Jennings was already clambering the rail to the running-track. Lightly as a boy, the commodore vaulted after him. Shoulder to shoulder the two joined the group before the judges'

stand.

There ran a ripple of question through the crowd, then a storm of delighted cheers and laughter. Mr. Jennings wriggled in sheepish torment. The commodore, sparkling and debonair, bowed to the throng and hung his Panama on a fence-post.

Then down the running-track fled a small, shiny black object, squealing in glad escape. Instantly a shot crashed; then came a thundering shout:

"Ready--go!"

With whoops and yells the group of runners raced away down the track.

The commodore kept well in the lead. He ran as lightly and as easily as did the boys that forged alongside him. Mr. Jennings puffed and pounded farther in the rear at every turn. They made the first lap of the race. At the second turn the commodore, only third from the lead, waved his hand to Mrs. McCloskey and the girls with a flourish of mischievous triumph. Marian and Sally Lou, tearful and choking with delight, clasped hands and swayed together in helpless rapture. Thus completely absorbed in the spectacle, they let go of Mr. Finnegan's leash.

That was all that Finnegan wanted. With one glad yelp he hurled himself through the fence and bounced like a ball, straight into the midst of the fray. Far in advance fled a shiny black object. Finnegan knew his duty. The commodore was hurrying to catch that object. It was Finnegan's part to aid in that capture at all costs. Yelping madly, he tore away down the track.

"Oh, it's Finnegan! Oh, the little villain! If I had only left him at home!" Poor Marian strove to call him back. But against the uproar of the crowd her voice could not make a sound. "Oh, the naughty little sinner, he will catch that pig himself and spoil the race for everybody. Look, Sally Lou! He has almost caught up with the pig this minute!"

Even as she spoke, Finnegan, running at top speed, shot ahead of the fleeing pig. Then, with a frenzied bark, he whirled and charged straight at the prize.

This front attack was too much for any pig's self-control. Not content with galloping murderously at his heels, his pursuers had set this ferocious brute to destroy him! With a squeal of mortal panic the little fellow turned right-about and bolted. Shrieking, he dashed back, straight into the crowd of runners.

"Oh--oh! He's right under the commodore's hand! Oh, if he wasn't so slippery--Look, quick, Marian!"

"Well, will you look at that now!" Mrs. McCloskey's mild voice rose in a laugh of triumph. "Sure, I never yet knew the commodore to fail if once he'd set his head to do a thing!"

"If only he can keep fast hold of the pig till he reaches the judges'

stand," whispered Sally Lou. All three gazed in pale suspense at the commodore, now striding gayly up the race-track, the pig squirming and squealing wildly in his arms.

"I'm mistrustin' that myself," said Mrs. McCloskey, nervously, "for the little animal is not so convenient to hold, bein' he's so gla.s.sy smooth. But trust the commodore. He'll not fail, now."

The commodore did not fail. Calm and majestic, as if he strode a quarter-deck, he paced down the track and halted before the judges'

stand, his shrieking prize held high. As the umpire bent forward to give him the champion's blue ribbon, the crowd broke loose. No Olympic victor ever received his laurel in the face of a more enthusiastic tumult.

"I give up," puffed Mr. Jennings, fanning himself with his hat. "You caught that pig fair an' square, commodore. The honors are yours."

"Tut, tut, 'twas no great matter," declared the commodore modestly, as the girls heaped him with praises. "'Twas just a moment's divarsion.