But you mark my words!"
"All right, Field Marshal--or is it 'General'?" said Bob.
She laughed.
"Just camp cook," she replied good-humouredly.
The sun was slanting low through the tall, straight trunks of the trees.
Amy Thorne arose, gathered a handful of kindling, and began to rattle
the stove.
"I am contemplating a real pudding," she said over her shoulder.
Bob arose reluctantly.
"I must be getting on," said he.
They said farewell. At the hitching rail Thorne joined him.
"I'm afraid I'm not very hospitable," said the Supervisor, "but that
mustn't discourage you from coming often. We'll be better organized in
time."
"It's mighty pleasant over here; I've enjoyed myself," said Bob,
mounting.
Thorne laid his hand on the young man's knee.
"I wish we could induce you old-timers to come to our way of thinking,"
said he pleasantly.
"How's that?" asked Bob.
"Your slash is in horrible shape."
"Our slash!" repeated Bob in a surprised tone. "How?"
"It's a regular fire-trap, the way you leave it tangled up. It wouldn't
cost you much to pile the tops and leave the ground in good shape.
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