Jake did not see him. He grasped the fork
firmly in his great fist and speared the pickle as if he had been
harpooning a fish. The pickle resented such violence. It shot out of the
dish and half way across the room with old Jake, the fork still clenched
firmly, gazing stupidly after it.

"April Fool, Jake!" called one of the men who saw the joke. Some one
picked up the pickle and passed it from hand to hand. After that, people
avoided the wooden pickles, but several took liberal bites of
brine-steeped ones.

The fun was well under way by this time. So many people had been
victimized that many refused the dainties they coveted, for fear of
being deceived, only to find their next neighbor enjoying them. The
guests began to try to catch each other, and the young men would get
Marian to point out the traps. But, so far, Frank had escaped, though
Sherm and Chicken Little had been plotting all day. They took Captain
Clarke into their confidence, but even he failed, until he had the happy
thought of getting Wing to help. Wing had been working busily in the
kitchen assisting Annie.

Frank had steadily refused cotton wool doughnuts and sanded pie and
every doubtful delicacy, but he was extremely fond of cup custard. When
Wing approached him, urging that he be served now, Frank hesitated a
moment, then said: "Just bring me a custard, Wing. And Wing, don't let
anybody meddle with it."

Wing came grinning to the conspirators.

"Oh, dear," said Chicken Little, "I think the custards are all right."

Marian overheard. "Trust me, Chicken Little, I have one very special one
for Frank--I didn't intend to have him crowing."

Wing bore in a most tempting custard. Frank inspected it carefully to
make sure it had not been tampered with. In so doing he attracted the
attention of those round him. He took a generous spoonful and made a
hasty dive for the kitchen amid lively applause from the whole room.

"What was in it?" The Captain was still shaking.

"Mustard--Marian made it bad enough so he couldn't hide it!" Chicken
Little was dancing up and down in glee.

"Wing, you rascal, I'd like to choke you." Frank was still sputtering.

Wing assumed a mournful expression. "Me velly sorry--nobody touch, samee
you say."

It was the second of April before the last rattle of wheels died away
down the lane.

"Well, Mother, I think it paid for the trouble," said Dr. Morton, as
they were starting homeward, his arms laden with chairs.

"Ye