"Bobby, let's have a garden, you and I." Bob looked up from the front of the tent platform, where he sat polishing a pair of much-worn russet shoes. Riding back and forth, nights and mornings, on a bicycle, over very dusty roads, made it necessary to polish often. But Bob didn't mind. The two weeks of camp life he had enjoyed had made him indifferent to any extra trouble involved. "Looks as if you had a garden somewhere," he responded, eyeing with favour the pailful of red raspberries Sally held up. "You must have got up with the lark, to have picked all those. Mary Ann hasn't more than started the fire in the kitchen tent. I had to go and help her. That girl doesn't know how to boil an egg. She cracks it getting it in. Her coffee is a thick, dark, wicked looking stuff. What do you suppose she does to it?" he asked in a whisper. "Never mind. I'm growing stronger every minute, and mean to begin to cook, next week." "Thank goodness!" murmured Bob. "I mean," he explained quickly, "that I'm thankful you're well enough." Sally laughed, pulled off her wide straw hat, and sat down beside Bob. "Your cheeks are pink as hollyhocks," he observed, eyeing her with satisfaction. "I had a lovely time picking those raspberries," she said. "There must have been a big patch of them back there once. Bob, I want to start a kitchen garden. Max and Alec haven't waked up yet to the fun it would be to grow things on this old place, but you're always awake. Come on!" Bob stood up. "I'm ready for anything you say, but I don't know any more about planting gardens than I do about building bridges. You don't plant a garden in July--I'm sure of that." "Isn't there a thing that can go in late, and produce a late crop?" "Don't ask me. Maybe our friend Ferry would know. If there's anything he doesn't know, I haven't found it out. It's funny a preacher should be such an all-round sort of fellow, isn't it?" "A--what?" Sally nearly dropped her raspberries, she was so astonished. "A preacher. He preaches in the old white church with the big pillars, away down town in the middle of everything. I just found it out yesterday from a fellow in the office." "Why, it can't be! He's always busy round that garden--or chopping wood up in our timber tract. He asked Max to let him work at that--for the sake of his muscle, he said." "If you'll just stop and think, you'll find he isn't round all the time. He's in the city every day--has to be. He holds a half-hour noon service in the old church every day in the week for men. Fred Kentner says they flock in there like sheep--says he goes in often. It's cool in there, and he likes the things Ferry says. I'm going in with Fred some day soon. I'd like to find out what a fellow that can chop trees and fight with his fists can find to say in a pulpit." "Fight with his fists!"