at her pleasantly.

"I hate cooking." Judy's voice was cold. She hoped he would go away.

Launcelot leaned against a tree to discuss the question.

"Oh," he said. "I don't hate it. It's rather a fine art, you know."

"Anybody can cook," murmured Judy with decision.

"H-m. Can you, little girl?"

Judy sat up at that. "I'm fourteen," she flashed.

Launcelot laughed, such a contagious laugh, that in spite of herself
Judy felt the corners of her lips twitch.

"That waked you up," he said, "you didn't like to have me call you
'little girl.' Well, am I to say Miss Jameson or Judy?"

Judy pondered.

"Neither," she said at last.

"Then what--?" began Launcelot. "Oh, by Jove, the bacon's burning.
I'll be back in a minute."

When he had taken the bacon out of the pan, and had laid the fish in a
corn-mealed symmetrical row in the hot fat, he again turned the pan
over to Perkins and came back to Judy.