going back to hive the bees. The Scout Master slid to the ground. Suddenly Jamie felt a pair of small, wiry arms around his neck that hugged him up so tight that he did not know but that his head was going to be amputated. Then for the third time, squarely on his mouth, he got another little hard, hot kiss of a brand and delivery that he knew he was never going to forget.
The little Scout started toward the house, but only a few yards had been covered before there was a halt, and the small person whirled. “Quick! How goofy! We forgot the incinerator! There’s Highland Mary and little Mary and all the valuable papers soaking in the ashes and maybe some fire under them! You got to get ’em quick, if I have to turn the hose on you while you’re doin’ it! Whatever it was she wanted to burn up so bad, why that’s edzackly what we must have to prove that what’s give us is ours. You can’t tell it to the probate judge very good without the papers in the incinerator, and it doesn’t seem as if you’d be placid enough to tackle the incinerator right now without riskin’ a mixshure of Black Germans and Italians-—an’ Germans can shoot straight!”
“You go on to your fooling around,” said Jamie. “I’ll jump into the bee clothes. Maybe I’ll put the old raincoat over them, and I may take the bee mask, since things are so stirred up, but don’t you worry, I’ll reach the incinerator and I’ll get everything in it. I’ll not stop to hive the bees until everything is on the kitchen table and spread out to dry.”
Jamie raced to the back porch to prepare himself, and,
