First a fire must be built and a big one at that, as it takes many hot coals to roast potatoes. Lucy and Lil Tate, with their faithful followers, Skeeter and Frank, had gone on a little ahead, and when the rest of the crowd reached the spot the fire was already burning merrily. In a short time it was ready to drop the potatoes in, Irish potatoes and great yams that looked big enough for the bed-ridden giant himself to make a meal of. Then the roasting ears of corn must be opened, the silk removed and the ears wrapped carefully in the shucks again and placed in just exactly the right part of the fire to cook but not to burn. There was some kind of work for all of those inclined to usefulness, and any who were not so inclined could wander around admiring the scenery or climb up in the tree to secure the choice seats. There were seats for all and to spare in the gnarled old limbs of the giant oak. Mrs. Carter was enthroned in a leafy armchair while Hiram G. perched beside her. Evidently he was prepared to be waited on and not to wait. Bobby climbed to the tiptop of one of the great branches where he looked like a "little cherub that sits up aloft." "I'm a-gonter let down a string and pull my eats up here," he declared. "Oh, Bobby!" shuddered his mother. "Don't say such words!" "What I done now?" cried that young hopeful, peeping down through the leafy screen, with an elfish, toothless grin. "Don't say eats! Say luncheon!" "Yes, I won't! If I say luncheon, they'll send me up 'bout 'nough to put in my eye. I've a great mind to say victuals like Oscar and then they'll send me up something sho'. Hi, Helen! Put my victuals in a bucket and tie it to this string!" he cried, dangling a string before Helen's eyes as she stooped under the tree, unpacking the basket containing the paper plates and Japanese napkins. "I won't put anything in the bucket unless you mind mother," said Helen severely, but her eye was twinkling at Bobby's philological distinction. "Well, then, Helen dear, be so kind as to put my luncheon in that there little bucket what you see turned up over yonder by the fire. But, Helen," in a stage whisper, "please don't put it in like a luncheon but like it was jes' victuals. Luncheons ain't never 'nough for workin' mens." So all in good time Helen packed a hefty lunch in the bucket for her darling and he drew it up to his castle in the tree and feasted right royally. When everyone was too hungry to stand it another moment the potatoes were done, all burnt on the outside and delicious and mealy within. There never were such sandwiches as Helen's; and the corn, roasted in the shucks, was better than corn ever had been before. The cheese cakes and fried turnovers proved very good for tree eating and not too squashy. Boxes of candy appeared like magic from the pockets of masculine week-enders. Mr. Tucker produced three, one for each of his girls.