and carried in many places straight down mountain-sides, would attain.
The hose twisted as if it were a living thing, and the little Scout eased off the hydrant a trifle in the fear that the hose might burst.
The interloper hurried down the back walk as fast as her feet would carry her over its winding and precipitous way and dumped the contents of the basket into the incinerator. On top of it the precious papers were thrown and then the match was scratched and held a second to make sure that it was blazing before the papers were touched off at the top. As the hand holding the match reached toward the papers, a stream of water that shook the incinerator on its base struck it and began speedily soaking its entire contents and a shnill voice, keyed to the top note of wild excitement, shouted: “Look you careful there! You’ve got swarming bees on each side of you! You’ll be stung to death in just about one minute, ’cause God knows your scent ain’t right!’
How much Miss Worthington knew about bees was debatable. One thing the little Scout recognized: She knew enough about them to be afraid. She looked to the right and then to the left and decided she would risk it, though the bees were coming closer.
“Turn off that hose!” she shouted. “Turn off that hose!”
“Not on your life!” retorted the little Scout. “You ain’t a-goin’ to burn up those papers! They don’t belong to you. Don’t you touch ’em! Don’t you touch one of
