ed.

"Y-es, I presume so," he replied, visibly perplexed.

"It's the best to be had," said I.

"That's quite right," he said, musingly. "We use only the best of
everything at Bronx Park. It is traditional with us, you know."

Curiosity pushed me. "Well, what on earth is it for?" I broke out.

He looked at me gravely over the tops of his spectacles--a striking
and inspiring figure in his yellow flannel dressing-gown and
slippers.

"I shall tell you some day--perhaps," he said, mildly. "Good-night,
Miss Barrison; good-night, Mr. Gilland. You will find extra blankets
on your bunk--"

"What!" I cried.

"Bunks," he said, and shut the door.

XVI

"There is something weird about this whole proceeding," I observed to
the pretty stenographer next morning.

"These pies will be weird if you don't stop talking to me," she said,
opening the doors of Professor Farrago's portable camping-oven and
peeping in at the fragrant pastry.

The professor had gone off somewhere into the woods early that
morning. As he was not in the habit of talking to himself, the
services of Miss Barrison were not required. Before he started,
however, he came to her with a request for a dozen pies, the
construction of which he asked if she understood. She had been to
cooking-school in more prosperous days, and she mentioned it; so at
his earnest solicitation she undertook to bake for him twelve
apple-pies; and she was now attempting it, assisted by advice from me.

"Are they burned?" I asked, sniffing the air.

"No, they are not burned, Mr. Gilland, but my finger is," she
retorted, stepping back to examine the damage.

I offered sympathy and witch-hazel, but she would have none of my
offerings, and presently returned to her pies.

"We can't eat all that pastry," I protested.

"Professor Farrago said they were not for us to eat," she said,
dusting each pie with powdered sugar.

"Well, what are they for? The dog? Or are they simply objets d'art to
adorn the shanty--"

"You annoy me," she said.

"The pies annoy me; won't you tell me what they're for?"

"I have a pretty fair idea what they're for," she observed, tossing
her head. "Haven't you?"

"No. What?"

"These pies are for bait."

"To bait hooks with?" I exclaimed.

"Hooks! No, you silly man. They're for baiting the cage. He means to
trap these transparent creatures in a cage baited with pie."

She laughed scornfully; inserted the burned tip of her finger in her
m