"What kind of things?" asked Betty curiously.

"I came without my luggage," explained Pen glibly, "but I can trim out
clothes as easily as I can animals, and if you have any stray pieces of
cloth I can very quickly duplicate what I am now wearing."

"We have quantities of material," said Mrs. Kingdon. "I seem to have a
mania for buying it, and there my interest in new garments ceases. Agatha
is a fine seamstress, so we'll have you outfitted in no time."

"Wouldn't you like to motor over the place, Miss Pen?" invited Kingdon as
they rose from the table. Smiling understandingly at her look of alarm, he
added: "I don't mean in the car Kurt brought you up in yesterday."

"Uncle Kurt made it all himself--out of parts he bought," boasted
Francis.

"Dear me!" said Pen ruefully. "I wish he hadn't bought so many parts, or
else left some of them out."

"It's a fine car!" declared Francis in tone of rebuke.

"I like it better than ours," said Billy. "We helped make it."

"I throw up my hands," said Kingdon. "Only the loyalty of a child would
have the courage to defend such a car."

In a long, luxurious limousine the entire family made the rounds of the
ranch to show Pen the squadrons of cattle browsing by the creek,
thoroughbred horses inclosed in a pasture of many miles, the
smaller-spaced farmyard, the buildings, bunk-houses and "Kurt's Kabin," as
a facetious cowboy had labeled the office where the foreman made out the
pay rolls and transacted the business affairs of the ranch.

"I think you have seen it all, now," said Kingdon, as he turned the car
into the driveway that led homeward.

"Oh, no!" cried Billy. "She hasn't seen Jo yet. There he is at the mess
house."

"Of course, you must see Jo, Miss Pen," said Kingdon. "I'll drop you and
the kiddies here and you can call on him. I have an idea he will be more
Jo-like if my wife and I are not present."

The car stopped near a long low building, and Pen with the children got
out of the car.

"Jo-o-o!" chorused the trio.

From the house came Jo, whom the men had nicknamed the "human spider," for
his arms and legs were the thinnest of his species. He was saved from
being grotesque, however, by a certain care-free grace, a litheness of
movement. He had greenish-blue eyes that were set far apart and crinkled
when they laughed--as ever and oft they did. His features were irregular,
his hair unruly, but there was a lovable appeal in the roguish eyes and
the charm of hu