In a little while Mr. Kincaid straightened up and with a clatter slid an iron stove cover over the opening. He lit a candle, stuck it in the mouth of a bottle, and moved down on the table shelf carrying the frying pan. Bobby then saw that the table shelf had been set with two-heavy plates, cutlery, and two granite-ware cups. The salt-rising bread and dutch bread were laid out with a knife beside them. A saucer contained a pat of butter; a bottle, milk; and a plate was heaped with doughnuts. "Supper's ready," announced Mr. Kincaid cheerfully. "Sit up, Bobby." The frying pan proved to contain two generous slices of ham; and four eggs fried crisp. "What's the matter with this for a feast?" cried Mr. Kincaid; "sail in!" The man and the boy ate, the flickering light between them. Outside howled the wind. Curly slumbered peacefully in the corner. "This," proffered Mr. Kincaid after an interval, as he reached toward the basket, "is what my grandfather used to call a 'good competent pie.' Like pie, Bobby?" "Yes, sir," replied Bobby, "but I mustn't eat the under crust." "Right you are. Well, there's somebody here who'll eat it for you." "Do you want it?" asked Bobby, wondering. Mr. Kincaid laughed. "No, I mean Curly," he explained. "Will Curly eat pie?" marvelled Bobby. "Curly," said Mr. Kincaid impressively, "will eat anything you can throw down a hole." It was a good pie, with lots of room between the crusts, and cinnamon on the apples, and sugar and nutmeg on top. When finally Mr. Kincaid pushed back his stool, Curly gravely arose and came forward to get his share of whatever had not been eaten. "Now, dishes!" said Mr. Kincaid. "Will you wash or wipe, Bobby?" "My, I'm full!" said Bobby in the way of indirect expostulation against immediate activity. "The time to wash dishes is right away," said Mr. Kincaid briskly. "They wash easier; and when they're done you have a comfortable feeling that there's nothing more to be done--and a clear conscience. Did you ever wash dishes?" "No, sir." "Well, it's time you learned. Come on." Bobby learned how to manipulate hot water, soap, and a dish-rag. Also how difficult it is to remove some sorts of grease. "Condemned!" pronounced Mr. Kincaid severely, returning him the frying pan. But when the simple task was done, Bobby felt an unusual glow of competence and experience. He was really "camping out." A new ambition to learn came to him, an ambition to do his share and to understand other people's share. Naturally his mind turned first to accustomed things. "Where's the wood pile?" he asked Mr. Kincaid. "Can't I fill the wood-box?" "It's just behind the house," approved Mr. Kincaid. Bobby turned the wooden "button" that fastened the door from the inside. At once it was snatched from his hand and flung open. A burst of wind rioted in, extinguished the candle, flared up the fire in the stove, and hurled a loose paper against the roof.