"Oh, don't fuss--so," said little Eve Edgarton. "It's nothing but my
paper-doll book."

"Your PAPER-DOLL BOOK?" stammered Barton. With another racking effort
he edged himself even farther forward. "Miss Edgarton!" he asked quite
frankly, "are you--crazy?"

[Illustration: "Your PAPER-DOLL BOOK?" stammered Barton]

"N--o! But--very determined," drawled little Eve Edgarton. With
unruffled serenity she picked up a pulpy magazine-page from the
ground in front of her and handed it to him. "And it--would greatly
facilitate matters, Mr. Barton," she confided, "if you would kindly
begin drying out some papers against your side of the lantern."

"What?" gasped Barton.

Very gingerly he took the pulpy sheet between his thumb and
forefinger. It was a full-page picture of a big gas-range, and slowly,
as he scanned it for some hidden charm or value, it split in two and
fell soggily back to its mates. Once again for sheer nervous relief he
burst out laughing.

Out of her diminutiveness, out of her leanness, out of her
extraordinary litheness, little Eve Edgarton stared up speculatively
at Barton's great hulking helplessness. Her hat looked humorous. Her
hair looked humorous. Her tattered flannel shirt was distinctly
humorous. But there was nothing humorous about her set little mouth.

"If you--laugh," she threatened, "I'll tip you over backward