thoughtfully. "What do you all think of havin' the picnic right here
an' now?"

The suggestion was regarded as nothing short of an inspiration.

"The only trouble," continued Mrs. Wiggs, "is 'bout the water. Where
we goin' to git any to drink? I know one of the firemen, Pete Jenkins;
if I could see him I'd ast him to pour us some outen the hose."

"Gimme the pail; I'll go after him," cried Jake.

"Naw, you don't; I'm a-goin'. It's my maw that knows him," said Billy.

"That ain't nothin'. My uncle knows the chief of police! Can't I go,
Mrs. Wiggs?"

Meanwhile Chris had seized the hint and the bucket, and was off in
search of Mr. Peter Jenkins, whose name would prove an open sesame to
that small boy's paradise--the engine side of the rope.

The old quilt, still damp, was spread on the ground, and around it sat
the picnic party, partaking ravenously of dry sandwiches and cheese
and cheer. Such laughing and crowding and romping as there was! Jake
gave correct imitations of everybody in the Cabbage Patch, Chris did
some marvelous stunts with his wooden leg, and Lovey Mary sang every
funny song that she knew. Mrs. Wiggs stood in the wagon above them,
and dispensed hospitality as long as it lasted. Cuba, hitched to a
fence near by, needed no material nourishment. He was contentedly
sniffing the smoke-filled air, and living over again the days of his
youth.