stone flagon of vodka. Wanly, like some far pinnacle on some far
Russian fortress, its grim shape loomed in the sallow lantern light.
The second thud was a dust-colored basket of dates from some
green-spotted Arabian desert. Vaguely its soft curving outline merged
into shadow and turf. The third thud was a battered old
drinking-cup--dully silver, mysteriously Chinese. The fourth thud was
a big glass jar of frankly American beef. Familiarly, reassuringly,
its sleek sides glinted in the flickering flame.

"Supper," announced little Eve Edgarton.

As tomboyishly as a miniature brigand she crawled forward again into
the meager square of lantern-tinted earth and, yanking a revolver out
of one boot-leg and a pair of scissors from the other, settled herself
with unassailable girlishness to jab the delicate scissors-points into
the stubborn tin top of the meat jar.

As though the tin had been his own flesh the act goaded Barton half
upright into the light--a brightly naked young Viking to the waist, a
vaguely shadowed equestrian Fashion Plate to the feet.

"Well--I certainly never saw anybody like you before!" he glowered at
her.

With equal gravity but infinitely more deliberation little Eve
Edgarton returned the stare. "I never saw anybody like you before,
either," she said enigmatically.

Barton winced back into the darkness. "Oh, I say," he stammered. "I
wish I had a coat! I feel like a--like a--"