reakfast. After the fruit came porridge,
and more cream; then fresh boiled eggs with toast; then fresh ripe
strawberries with more cream.

"Mr.--Mr.--"

"Tompkins, Ma'am; Cyrus Tompkins," he supplied.

"Well, Mr. Tompkins, you're a wonder, and when there's a new cook to be
engaged for the Y.D. I shall think of you."

"Indeed I wish you would, Ma'am," he said, earnestly. "This road
work's all right, and nobody ever cooked for a better boss than Mr.
Transley--savin' it would be your father, Ma'am--but I'm a man of
family, an' it's pretty hard--"

"Family, did you say, Mr. Tompkins? How many of a family have you?"

"Well, it's seven years since I heard from them--I haven't corresponded
very reg'lar of late, but they WAS six--"

The story of Tompkins' family was cut short by the arrival of a team and
mowing machine.

"What's up, Fred?" called Tompkins through a window of his dining car to
the driver. "Breakfust is just over, an' dinner ain't begun."

For answer the man addressed as Fred slowly produced an iron stake about
eighteen inches long and somewhat less than an inch in diameter.

"What kind of shrubbery do you call that, Tompkins?" he demanded.

"Well, it ain't buffalo grass, an' it ain't brome grass, an' I don't
figger it's alfalfa," said Tompkins, meditatively.

"No, and it ain't a grub-stake," Fred replied, with some sarcasm. "It's
a iron stake, growin' right in a nice little clump of grass, and I run
on to it and bust my cuttin'-bar all to--that is, all to pieces," he
completed rather lamely, taking Zen into his glance.

"I think I follow you," she said, with a smile. "Can you fix it here?"

"Nope. Have to go to town for a new one. Two days' lost time, when every
hour counts. Hello! Here comes someone else."

Another of the teamsters was drawing into camp. "Hello, Fred!" he said,
upon coming up with his fellow workman, "you in too? I had a bit of
bad luck. I run smash on to an iron stake right there in the ground and
crumpled my knife like so much soap."

"I did worse," said Fred, with a grin. "I bust my cuttin'-bar."

The two men exchanged a steady glance for half a minute. Then the
new-comer gave vent to a long, low whistle.

"So that's the way of it," he said. "That's the kind of war Mr. Landson
makes. Well, we can fight back with the same weapons, but that won't cut
the hay, will it?"

By this time Y.D. and Transley, with four other teamsters, were observed
coming in. Each driver had ha