Part 7 (1/2)

”Anybody can cook,” murmured Judy with decision.

”H-m. Can you, little girl?”

Judy sat up at that. ”I'm fourteen,” she flashed.

Launcelot laughed, such a contagious laugh, that in spite of herself Judy felt the corners of her lips twitch.

”That waked you up,” he said, ”you didn't like to have me call you 'little girl.' Well, am I to say Miss Jameson or Judy?”

Judy pondered.

”Neither,” she said at last.

”Then what--?” began Launcelot. ”Oh, by Jove, the bacon's burning.

I'll be back in a minute.”

When he had taken the bacon out of the pan, and had laid the fish in a corn-mealed symmetrical row in the hot fat, he again turned the pan over to Perkins and came back to Judy.

”Well?” he asked, as he came up.

”Call me Judith,” said the incensed young lady. ”Judy is my pet name, and I keep it for--my friends.”

Launcelot gave a long whistle.

”Say, do you talk like this to Anne?” he asked.

”Like what?”

”In this--er--straight from the shoulder sort of fas.h.i.+on?”

”No. Anne is my friend.”

Launcelot shook his head. ”You can't have Anne for a friend unless you have me.”

”Why not?”

”She was my friend first.”

”Oh, well,” Judy shrugged her shoulders and shut her eyes again, ”it is too hot to argue.”

There was a long silence, and then Launcelot said: ”Don't you want to fish?”

”I hate fis.h.i.+ng.”

”Or to pick wild flowers?”

”I hate--” Judy had started her usual ungracious formula, before she recognized its untruth. ”Well, I don't want to pick them now,” she amended, ”I'd rather stay here.”

”But you are not going to stay here.”