The Night They Stormed Eureka by Jackie French Read Free Book Online

her, his eyes pale in his dirty face.
    ‘Sorry, er, Ma,’ said Sam. She should shut up, she thought. This was a strange place, a strange world and a strange time.
    ‘An’ now,’ Mrs Puddleham nodded, relieved at the apology, ‘I’ll whip up a batch o’ scones in the camp oven good as the queen herself could ask for, to celebrate Sam’s coming like, and we can have them with the stew. An’ you better have a plateful yourself, Professor, ‘cause if you don’t eat nothing yer goin’ to fall into that jug o’ yours and fade away.’

Chapter 7
    The stew was good, thick and savoury, though anything would have tasted good by now, thought Sam, using a scone to wipe up the last of the gravy just like Mrs Puddleham was doing. It had been at least six hours since she’d eaten the dumplings, and her sandwich at school yesterday had been … she suppressed a giggle. More than a hundred years in the future!
    The scones were perfect. Somehow Mrs Puddleham had managed to mix them in seconds, dropping round balls of dough into a big iron-lidded pot nudged into the coals, with a shovelful of coals on the lid. The scones had turned out golden brown and just right for eating with stew.
    Mrs Puddleham gave a happy sigh, and burped. Across the fire her husband nibbled at the last of his scone.
    ‘Anyone for seconds?’ Mrs Puddleham brushed the crumbs off her bosom then wiped her finger over a drip of stew.
    Sam shook her head. ‘It was wonderful.’
    ‘You sure, deary?’ This time Mrs Puddleham’s smile was brighter than the fire. ‘Ah, you should have seen what Ihelped cook up in the palace. Now those were real dinners. Four different roasts even when it were just the family, beef and lamb and turkey and guinea fowl mebbe, or pheasant. Four sorts o’ fish as well, an’ every vegetable swimmin’ in good butter or them foreign sauces. Baked potatoes all crisp and brown and sparrowgrass in holidays sauce, blancmanges and jellies an’ pineapple fritters. None o’ this stew there.’
    ‘Their lack, madam.’ The Professor — or whoever he was — sketched a straggly bow.
    ‘Anyone want another scone with a bit o’ treacle for afters? No? Time for shut-eye then.’ Mrs Puddleham heaved her bulk up from her seat, and placed their plates in a wooden bucket. ‘Sam and I will sleep in the tent,’ she added pointedly to Mr Puddleham. ‘You can roll up in your swag out here.’
    Mr Puddleham stared at the plump comfort of his wife. ‘On my own? Out here?’
    ‘I can sleep by the fire,’ said Sam quickly.
    ‘It’s not right for a gir—a young ‘un to sleep by ‘imself outside,’ said Mrs Puddleham stubbornly.
    Finally they compromised. Sam would sleep in the lean-to, where the meat and vegetables were stored, wrapped in Mrs Puddleham’s best blanket. ‘Just washed last Saturday so don’t you worry about no bugs in it. An’ you call us if you need something in the night.’ She bent to whisper to Sam. ‘The thingummy’s in the lean-to for when you needs it. There’s a pile o’ nice soft leaves if you needs them too.’
    Mr and Mrs Puddleham vanished into the tent and theflaps closed behind them. There was the sound of boots being pulled off, and grunting, then eventually two sets of snores, one low and the other high with an almost-whistle to it.
    Sam sat and waited for the Professor to leave, so she could use the ‘thingummy’ without him hearing. But he just sat and stared as the flames licked the air. He took another swig from his jar, then pushed the cork in carefully. His fingernails were stained and split.
    ‘Well, my dear,’ he said conversationally, still looking at the flames, not her. ‘Do you care to tell me who you are?’ The mocking note had gone.
    Sam glanced at him quickly. ‘What do you mean?’
    The Professor glanced up at her and shrugged. ‘Call it curiosity. You’re no kin to the Puddlehams. Not even from London, if I’m any judge of an accent, which I rather think I am. American