And he apparently meant it, for he busied himself in exploring the car, which seemed as inexhaustible as the Mother's Bag in the Swiss Family Robinson, for the food he had spoken of. There was a large basket, which he produced and set on a stump, and from which he took sandwiches, thermos flasks, and--last perfidy of Lucille!--a tin box of shrimps a la King, carefully wrapped, and ready for reheating. He did it in a little ready-heat affair which also emerged from the basket, and which Marjorie knew well. It was her own, in fact. Reheated shrimps should have killed them both, more especially for breakfast. But they never thought of that till some days later. Marjorie was so overcome by finding her own shrimps facing her, so to speak, that nothing else occurred to her--except to eat them. They made a very good breakfast, during which Francis was never flippant once. They talked decorously about the natural scenery--fortunately for the conversation there was a great deal of natural scenery in their vicinity--and somewhat about pup-tents, and a little about how nice the weather was. After that they cleared up the pieces, repacked everything like magic, and went on their way very amicably. CHAPTER IV "And now that things are more or less settled, wouldn't you like to know what we are going to do?" inquired Francis. "Haven't I anything to do with it?" inquired Marjorie, not crossly, but as one seeking information. "Almost everything. But you don't know the road to Canada. I thought we'd take it straight through in the car, but to-night we will be in more civilized parts--in an hour or so, in fact--and you can get straightened up a little--not that you look as if you needed to, but after a night in the open one does feel more or less tossed about, I imagine." Marjorie considered. Ordinarily at this hour she would be walking into the office. She would be speaking with what politeness one can muster up in the morning to Miss Kaplan, who was quite as exuberant at five as at seven in the evening; she would be hoping desperately that she wasn't late, and that if she was she would escape Mr. Wildhack, who glared terrifyingly at such young women who didn't get down on schedule time. Marjorie was not much on schedule time, but she always felt that the occasions when she got there too late really ought to be balanced by those when she came too early. Instead of all this, she was racing north with the fresh wind blowing against her face, with no duties and no responsibilities, and something that, but for the person who shared it with her, promised to be rather fun. Just then something came to her. She had an engagement for tea with Bradley Logan. Suddenly that engagement seemed exceedingly important, and something that she should on no account have missed. But at least she could write to him and explain. "Have you a fountain-pen?" she inquired of Francis, "and can I write sitting here?"