of Thorne's voice in
dictation.

California John knocked the ashes from his pipe.

"Get your apron on, sonny," said he.

He tested the water on the stove and slammed out a commodious dish-pan.

"Glasses first; then silver; and if you break anything, I'll bash in
your fool head. There's going to be some style to this dishwashing. I
used to slide 'em all in together and let her go. But that ain't the way
here. She knows four aces and the jolly joker better than that. Glasses
first."

They washed and wiped the dishes, and laid them carefully away.

"She's a little wonder," said California John, nodding at the office,
"and there ain't none of the boys but helps all they can."

Thorne called the old man by name, and he disappeared into the office. A
moment later the girl emerged, smoothing back her hair with both hands.
She stepped immediately to the little kitchen.

"Thank you," said she. "That helps."

"It was old John," disclaimed Bob. "I'm ashamed to say I should never
have thought of it."

The girl nodded carelessly.

"Where did you learn stenography?" asked Bob.

"Oh, I got that out of a ten-cent magazine too." She sat on a bench,
looked up at the sky through the trees, and drew a deep breath.

"You're tired," said Bob.

"Not a bit," she denied. "But I don't often get a chance to just look
up."

"You seem to do the gardening, the cooking, the housework, the clerical
work--you don't do the laundry, too, do you?" demanded Bob ironically.

"You noticed those miserable khakis!" cried Amy with a gesture of
dismay. "Ashley," she called, "change those khakis before you go out,"

"Yes, mama," came back a mock childish voice.

"What's your salary?" demanded Bob bluntly, nodding toward the office.

"What?" she asked, as though puzzled.

"Didn't you say you were the clerk?"

"Oh, I see. I just help Ashley out. He could _never_ get through the
field work and the office work both."

"Doesn't the Service allow him a clerk?"

"Not yet; but it will in time."

"What is Mr. Thorne's salary?"

"Well, really----"

"Oh, I beg pardon," cried Bob flushing; "I just meant supervisors'
salaries, of course. I wasn't prying, really. It's all a matter of
public record, isn't it?"

"Of course." The girl checked herself. "Well, it's eighteen hundred--and
something for expenses."

"Eighteen hundred!" cried Bob. "Do you mean to say that the _two_ of you
give all your time for that! Why, we pay a good woods foreman