"There is a bit o' that about the old man, until you get to know him,"
assented Sam cheerfully.

"Mr. Christopher Hucks--" began the stranger with slow emphasis,
dropping a peeled potato into the bucket and lifting a hand with an open
clasp-knife towards heaven.

But here a voice from within the caravan interrupted him.

"Stanislas!"

"My love?"

"I can't find the saucepan."

A lady appeared at the hatch of the doorway above. Her hair hung in
disarray over her well-developed shoulders, and recent tears had left
their furrows on a painted but not uncomely face.

"I--I--well, to confess the truth, I pawned it, my bud. Dear, every
cloud has its silver lining, and meanwhile what shall we say to a simple
fry? You have an incomparable knack of frying."

"But where's the dripping?"

Her husband groaned.

"The dripping! The continual dripping! Am I--forgive the bitterness of
the question--but am I a stone, love?"