urn. His skill had
often been called into requisition in the igniting of beach fires, and
the so-called "camp fires" of girls. He collected dry twigs from the
sunny places, cut slivers with his knife, built over the whole a
wigwam-shaped pyramid of heavier twigs, against which he leaned his
firewood. Then he touched off the combination. The slivers ignited the
twigs, the twigs set fire to the wigwam, the wigwam started the
firewood. Bennington's honour was vindicated. He felt proud.

Mary, who had been filling the coffee pot at the creek, approached and
viewed the triumph. She cast upon it the glance of scorn.

"That's no cooking fire," said she.

So Bennington, under her directions, placed together the two parallel
logs with the hewn sides and built the small bright fire between them.

"Now you see," she explained, "I can put my frying pan, and coffee pot,
and kettle across the two logs. I can get at them easy, and don't burn
my fingers. Now you may peel the potatoes."

The Easterner peeled potatoes under constant laughing amendment as to
method. Then the small cook collected her materials about her, in grand
preparation for the final rites. She turned back the loose sleeves of
her blouse to the elbow.

This drew an exclamation from Bennington.

"Why, Mary, how white your arms are!" he cried, astonished.

She surveyed her forearm with a little blush, turning it back and
forth.

"I _am_ pretty tanned," she agreed.

The coffee pot was filled and placed across the logs at one end, and
left to its own devices a little removed from the hottest of the fire.
The kettle stood next, half filled with salted water, in which nestled
the potatoes like so many nested eggs. Mary mixed a mysterious
concoction of corn meal, eggs, butter, and some white powder, mushing
the whole up with milk and water. The mixture she spread evenly in the
bottom of the frying pan, which she set in a warm place.

"It isn't much of a baking tin," she commented, eyeing it critically,
"but it'll do."

Under her direction Bennington impaled the two slices of ham on long
green switches, and stuck these upright in the ground in such a
position that the warmth from the flames could just reach them.

"They'll never cook there," he objected.

"Didn't expect they would," she retorted briefly. Then relenting,
"They finish better if they're warmed through first," she explained.

By this time the potatoes were bubbling energetically and the coffee