‘And to hear us talk is a liberal education,’ retorted Polly. ‘Exactly,’ said Philip, dryly, ‘Come, I’ll take the books and shawls. It’s nearly five o’clock, and we shall hear Hop Yet blowing his lusty dinner-horn presently.’ ‘Why didn’t you go off shooting with the others?’ asked Margery. ‘Stayed at home so they’d get a chance to shoot.’ ‘Why, do you mean you always scare the game away?’ inquired Polly, artlessly. ‘No; I mean that I always do all the shooting, and the others get discouraged.’ ‘Clasp hands over the bloody chasm,’ said Bell, ‘and let us smoke the pipe of peace at dinner.’ Philip and Bell came through the trees, and, as they neared the camp, saw Aunt Truth sitting at the door of Tent Chatter, looking the very picture of comfort, as she drew her darning-needle in and out of an unseemly rent in one of Dicky’s stockings. Margery and Polly came up just behind, and dropped into her lap some beautiful branches of wild azalea. ‘Did you have a pleasant walk, dears?’ she asked. ‘Yes, indeed, dear auntie. Now, just hold your head perfectly still, while we decorate you for dinner. We will make Uncle Doc’s eyes fairly pop with admiration. Have you been lonely without us?’ ‘Oh, not a bit. You see there has been a good deal of noise about here, and I felt as if I were not alone. Hop Yet has been pounding soap-root in the kitchen, and I hear the sound of Pancho’s axe in the distance,—the Doctor asked him to chop wood for the camp-fire. Was Dicky any trouble? Where is he?’ ‘Why, darling mother, are you crazy?’ asked Bell. ‘If you think a moment, he was in the hammock and you were lying down in the tent when we started.’ ‘Why, I certainly thought I heard him ask to go with you,’ said Mrs. Winship, in rather an alarmed tone. ‘So he did; but I told him it was too far.’ ‘I didn’t hear that; in fact, I was half asleep; I was not feeling well. Ask Hop Yet; he has been in the kitchen all the afternoon.’ Hop Yet replied, with discouraging tranquillity, ‘Oh, I no know. I no sabe Dicky; he allee time lun loun camp; I no look; too muchee work. I chop hash—Dicky come in kitch’—make heap work—no good. I tell him go long—he go; bime-by you catchum; you see.’ Whereupon he gracefully skinned an onion, and burst into a Chinese song, with complete indifference as to whether Dicky lived or died. ‘Perhaps he is with Pancho; I’ll run and see!’ cried Polly, dashing swiftly in the direction of the sky-parlour. But after a few minutes she ran back, with a serious face. ‘He’s not there; Pancho has not seen him since lunch.’