"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
mouth and stood looking at me defiantly like a flushed and bright-eyed
school-girl.
"You think you're teasing me," she said; "but you do not realize what
a singularly slow-minded young man you are."
I stopped laughing. "How did you come to the conclusion that pies were
to be used for such a purpose?" I asked.
"I deduce," she observed, with an airy wave of her disengaged hand.
"Your deductions are weird--like everything else in this vicinity.
Pies to catch invisible monsters? Pooh!"
"You're not particularly complimentary, are you?" she said.
"Not particularly; but I could be, with you for my inspiration. I
could even be enthusiastic--"
"About my pies?"
"No--about your eyes."
"You are very frivolous--for a scientist," she said, scornfully;
"please subdue your enthusiasm and bring me some wood. This fire is
almost out."
When I had brought the wood, she presented me with a pail of hot water
and pointed at the dishes on the breakfast-table.
"Never!" I cried, revolted.
"Then I suppose I must do them--"
She looked pensively at her scorched finger-tip, and, pursing up her
red lips, blew a gentle breath to cool it.
"I'll do the dishes," I said.
Splashing and slushing the cups and saucers about in the hot water, I
reflected upon the events of the last few days. The dog, stupefied by
unwonted abundance of food, lay in the sunshine, sleeping the sleep of
repletion; the pretty stenographer, all rosy from her culinary
exertions, was removing the pies and setting them in neat rows to
cool.
"There," she said, with a sigh; "now I will dry the dishes for you....
You didn't mention the fact, when you engaged me, that I was also
expected to do general housework."
"I didn't engage you," I said, maliciously; "you engaged me, you
know."
She regarded me disdainfully, nose uptilted.
"How thoroughly disagreeable you can be!" she said. "Dry your own
dishes. I'm going for a stroll."
"May I join--"
"You may _not_! I shall go so far that you cannot possibly discover
me."
I watched her forestward progress; she sauntered for about thirty
yards along the lake and presently sat down in plain sight under a
huge live-oak.
A few moments later I had completed my task as general bottle-washer,
and I cast about for something to occupy me.
First I approached and politely caressed the satiated dog. He woke up,
regarded me with dully meditative eyes, yawned, and went to sleep
again. Never a flop of tail to indicate gratitude for blandishments,
never the faintest symptom of canine appreciation.
Chilled by my reception, I moused about for a while, poking into boxes
and bundles; then raised my head and inspected the landscape. Through
the vista of trees the pink shirt-waist of the pretty stenographer
glimmered like a rose blooming in the wilderness.
From whatever point I viewed the prospect that pink spot seemed to
intrude; I turned my back and examined the jungle, but there it was
repeated in a hundred pink blossoms among the massed thickets; I
looked up into the tree-tops, where pink mosses spotted the palms; I
looked out over the lake, and I saw it in my mind's eye pinker than
ever. It was certainly a case of pink-eye.
"I'll go for a stroll, too; it's a free country," I muttered.
After I had strolled in a complete circle I found myself within three
feet of a pink shirt-waist.
"I beg your pardon," I said; "I had no inten--"
"I thought you were never coming," she said, amiably.
"How is your finger?" I asked.
She held it up. I took it gingerly; it was smooth and faintly rosy at
the tip.
"Does it hurt?" I inquired.
"Dreadfully. Your hands feel so cool--"