Ordinarily, Billy would have considered the over sight as something of
a catastrophe, but he passed it up as an unpleasant detail and turned
to the girl. "It's storming something fierce," he told her in an
exceedingly matter-of-fact way, "but I think it'll let up by daylight
so we can tackle it. Right now it's out of the question; so we'll have
another supper--a regular blowout this time, with coffee and biscuits
and all those luxuries. How are yuh on making biscuits?"

So he got her out of the corner, where she had looked too much at bay
to please him, and in making the biscuits she lost the watchful look
from her eyes. But she was not the Flora Bridger who had laughed at
their makeshifts and helped cook the chicken, and Charming Billy,
raving inwardly at the change, in his heart damned fervently the
Pilgrim.

In the hours that followed, Billy showed the stuff he was made of. He
insisted upon cooking the things that would take the longest time to
prepare; boasted volubly of the prune pies he could make, and then
set about demonstrating his skill and did not hurry the prunes in the
stewing. He fished out a package of dried lima beans and cooked some
of them, changing the water three times and always adding cold water.
For all that, supper was eventually ready and eaten and the dishes
washed--with Miss Bridger wiping them and with the Pilgrim eying them
both in a way that set on edge the teeth of Charming Billy.

When there was absolutely nothing more to keep them busy, Billy got
the cards and asked Miss Bridger if she could play coon-can--which was
the only game he knew that was rigidly "two-handed." She did not
know the game and he insisted upon teaching her, though the Pilgrim
glowered and hinted strongly at seven-up or something else which they