the griddle.

'Seems to me they come down with considerable of a thud,' she said,
reflectively. 'I hope they're not tough, for I should never hear the
last of it. Guess I'll punch one with the handle of this tin shovel,
and see how it acts. Goodness! it's sort of--elastic. That's funny.
Well, perhaps it's the way they ought to look.' Here she transferred
the smoking mysteries to her plate, passed a bit of pork over the
griddles, and, after ladling out eight more, flew off to the group at
the table.

'Are they good?' she was beginning to ask, when the words were frozen
on her lips by the sight of a significant tableau.

The four boys were standing on the bench that served instead of
dining-chairs, each with a plate and a pancake on the table in front
of them. Jack held a hammer and spike, Scott Burton a hatchet,
Geoffrey a saw, and Philip a rifle. Bell was nothing if not
intuitive. No elaborate explanations ever were needed to show her a
fact. Without a word she flung the plate of flapjacks she held as
far into a thicket as she had force to fling it, and then dropped on
her knees.


"'Shoot, if you must, this old grey head,
But spare my flapjacks, sirs," she said!


'What's the matter with them? Tough? I refuse to believe it. Your
tools are too dull,--that's all. Use more energy! Nothing in this