The tardy members of the party had at last come to breakfast. Mr. George was prevailed upon to “flop” the pan-cakes, and “Peter Pan’s” number increased alarmingly. “I eat so many because it is such fun to watch them perform, not because I like them,” she assured her mother, as she watched the marvelous feat repeated. “My name will now have to be ‘Peter Pan-cake,’ ’cause I’m so full,” she said, as she gathered up the remaining few and fed them to the waiting dogs. “Oh! Bess—come see Gladstone!” she cried gleefully, as she watched the dog dig a nice little hole in the leaves and then bury his breakfast. How artfully he scraped the twigs and dirt together in long sweeps with his nose, and then pressed it down firmly. “You see,” she explained, “he does it that way so that the other dogs can’t find it. Then when he gets hungry he goes and digs up his—his—why, his money, and eats it.” “Money,” laughed Bess, heartily. “I know—you mean _cache_, don’t you, dear?” “Oh, yes! Mr. George, an’ he knows everything about dogs, told me what it was, and I couldn’t quite remember, you see. Once he told me all about Jack’s grandmothers and grandfathers and uncles and all the family, and he called it a legacy or something like that. Don’t you think it would be grand to know so much about dogs?” chatted the tiny girl to her interested listener. Soon everything was ready to start for the day’s hunt; lunch basket filled, guns and ammunition ready, dogs eager to be off, and a wagon filled with hearty, happy people. They would try the stubble of the wheat fields on the Baptiste ranch today, and all felt confident already of much sport and many birds. “Honk—honk—honk” greeted their ears before many miles had passed behind them. Such scrambling for guns! Such hurrying to get a good position! Such banging of shells! “Honk—honk”—and the geese went sailing on. “Guess the weather isn’t right for a goose,” ventured “Peter Pan,” the only one who felt disposed to make any explanation. But the weather proved just right for chickens! And the hunters desisted because they were ashamed to slaughter more. Bess found the Indian squatted at a comfortable distance from the “kitchen fire” waiting her, upon her return. While the others were busy with the birds, or the horses, or supper preparations, she closed her deal for the fish. Spread out upon the large, green thimble-berry leaves were several beautiful speckled and salmon-tinted trout, all large and firm. The old Indian motioned that she was to have them all and that he would keep those left in the basket. Bess peeped inquisitively into the nest of leaves and there beheld—oh! such beauties! Shiny brook trout! They should be the feast. She showed with convincing gestures her unfeigned contempt for large fish when the lovely small ones were to be had. Yes, he might return these to the basket and leave the small ones for her.