work."

"What course will Uncle Pompey take?" I couldn't help asking, because
Uncle Pompey is so old he couldn't learn to turn one of his own batter
cakes the wrong way around.

"Domestic Science," Roxanne laughed back at her own self; and just
then Tony came in with his pie catastrophe that caused so much
trouble.

"You two hubbies, you had better lay aside the darning-needle and
seize the pie plate," he said, fanning himself with Roxanne's
scissors. "We've just decided in Scout Council to take the Palefaces
out to the Harpeth ridge to hunt spring shoots and roots, and we
always count on you for pies, Roxy, Stocking-darner."

"How lovely, Tony!" exclaimed Roxanne, rising right above the pies
which sank my heart like lead to think of her having to furnish; and
where would she get them? I was so dismayed that I never thought of
being embarrassed about being left out, as I, of course expected to
be; and so it came as a proud surprise when Tony asked me, in the
nicest way a boy could think of, to go with them. That is, he didn't
ask me, but ordered me what to bring like I had been going on the
Raccoon outings since infancy.

"You are to bring a white mountain cake in a cocoanut snowstorm, City
Bubbles," he said, with that funny flare of his eyes that always sets
me laughing inside whether I want to or not. "Belle is brewing
sandwiches and Mamie Sue is croquetting with some chicken. Don't tell
the dumpling, but we are going to rub asafetida on her shoes and leave