him if he isn't. Dear funny old Debbie--won't Chet and I have a picnic
to-night?"

And as she had predicted, they did have the time of their lives. Chet
refused to sit in the dining-room in lonely state, and in masterly
fashion invaded the kitchen.

"Say, that smells good, Billie, old girl," and he sniffed hungrily at the
stew. "Give me an apron and I'll help."

"Oh, look who wants to help," cried Billie, finding an apron nevertheless
and tying it around his waist so that he looked like a butcher's
assistant. "You will probably only get under my feet and bother me to
death, but I suppose I'll have to humor you. There, if you must do
something, set the table."

Now Chet did not want to set the table--it took him too far from the
appetizing aromas in the kitchen. However, he obeyed grumblingly and was
finally rewarded by being given a steaming dish of stew to carry in.

"Chet," screamed Billie, following him in and checking him just as he
was in the act of putting the hot dish on the tablecloth, "put a
protector under it. Don't you know," as Chet started and looked
reproachfully at her, "that you are apt to ruin the table? And it's
almost a brand new one at that."

"Well, you needn't scare a fellow to death," grumbled Chet. "I thought
I'd stepped on the cat." But he obeyed instructions.

"My! but doesn't everything look good?" cried Billie, sniffing hungrily.