mountain station, and then I has to hunt up a jay with a buckboard and
take a ten-mile drive over a course like a roller coaster. They ought
to smooth that Adirondack scenery down some. Crude stuff, I call it.

But, say, the minute we got inside Thundercaps' gates it's
diff'rent--smooth green lawns, lots of flowerbeds, a goldfish
pool,--almost like a chunk of Central Park. In the middle is a
white-sided, red-tiled shack, with pink and white awnings, and odd
windows, and wide, cozy verandas,--just the spot where you'd think a
perfectly good honeymoon might be pulled off.

I'm just unloadin' my bag and the flowerbox when around a corner of the
cottage trips a cerise-tinted vision in an all lace dress and a
butterfly wrap. Course, it's Robbie. She's heard the sound of wheels,
and has come a runnin'.

"Oh!" says she, stoppin' sudden and puckerin' her baby mouth into a
pout. "I thought someone was arriving, you know." Which was a sad
jolt to give a rescuer, wa'n't it?

"Sorry," says I; "but I'm all there is."

"You're the boy from Uncle Robert's office--Torchy, isn't it?" says she.

"It is," says I. "Fired up with flowers and Mr. Robert's compliments."

"The old dear!" says she, grabbin' the box, slippin' off the string and
divin' into the tissue paper. "Orchids, too! Oh, goody! But they
don't go with my coat. Pooh! I don't need it, anyway." With that
she, sheds the butterfly arrangement, chuckin' it casual on the steps,