at simply demoralized the entire
squad.

Finally Grace had diluted the washing powder and was pouring it over the
linen, regardless of their lovely colored borders, that should never
have known anything stronger than the purest soap. Then the cylinder
cover was clapped on and fastened (Cleo understood the importance of
this), and while all the girls stood at a safe distance she threw in the
switch, and touched the button.

Thereat the Girl Scouts' washing went on as merrily as a merry-go-round
at a picnic.

"We can go out and play croquet while it washes," announced Cleo
grandly. "That's the beauty of these washers."

They agreed that was real beauty, and off they romped to the brand new
croquet set, to try their skill at pegging balls under wire wickets.

"I think I'll go in and make the starch," Margaret proposed, as she
missed a wire. "Those clothes will be done presently, and we mustn't
wait too long between the acts. You know how tiresome that always is."

"Well, if you insist," replied Cleo. "You will find the starch where I
got the powder. Just help yourself," and off went the practical
Margaret, quite determined to earn her title of "boss."

But there were no directions on the starch box. That was queer thought
the little scout, every box should carry its own directions. But of
course, it must be very simple to make starch.

One pours water on it surely, she did that. Then one cooks it--Margaret
proceeded to do that, and before she could reach a spoon to stir the
mass, the lovely white starch had congealed into a big bubbly pan cake,
that wouldn't stir, wouldn't turn and wouldn't--do anything, but
burn--and my, how it did burn!

"Looks like a real pudding," she told herself in desperation, trying
frantically to move the mass from the bottom of the white enameled pan.

The odor of the burning starch brought her companions in on a run.

"What's the matter? Don't burn down the house," implored Grace. "My,
that's worse than the fish cake Cleo burned in the mud hole in the
woods. You don't make starch solid, Margy, you have to make it runny,
all gooy like, don't you know?"

"Of course, I know," retorted Margaret, "but I didn't do this, it did
itself. I had it all nice and gooy for about half a second, then it
cemented into adamant. There! I hate starch!" she admitted, ending up in
a gale of laughter that advertised defeat.

"Oh, run out and stop that motor Louise," called Cleo. "It has been
running ha