"You!" gasps Battou, starin' around at our twelve by eighteen livin'-room. I nods. "What would you take it on for as a steady job?" "Oh, anything that would provide for us," says he, eager. "But how----" "That's just the point," says I. "When you wasn't paintin' could you cook a little on the side? Officially you'd be a decorator, but between times---- Eh?" He's a keen one, Mr. Battou. "For so charming young people," says he, bowin' low, "it would be a great pleasure. And the little mother--ah, you should see what a manager she is! She can make a franc go farther. Could she assist also?" "Could she!" exclaims Vee. "If she only would!" Well, say, inside of half an hour we'd fixed up the whole deal, I'd armed Battou with a check to shove under the nose of that agent, and Vee had given Bertha her permanent release. And believe me, compared to what was put before Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ellins that evenin', the dress rehearsal dinner looked like Monday night at an actors' boardin'-house. "I say," whispers Mr. Robert, "your cook must be a real artist." "That's how he's carried on the family payroll," says I. "Of course," says Vee afterwards, "while we can afford it, I suppose, it does seem scandalously extravagant for us to have cooking like that every day." "Rather than have you worried with any more Bunglin' Berthas," says I, "I'd subsidize the whole of Peronne to come over. And just think of all I'll save by not havin' to buy my hat back from the coat-room boys every night." CHAPTER V A RECRUIT FOR THE EIGHT-THREE Have you a shiny little set of garden tools in your home? Have we? Well, I should seed catalogue. Honest to goodness! Here! I can show you a local time-table and my commuter's ticket. How about that, eh, for me? And I don't know now just what it was worked the sudden shift for us--the Battous, or our visit to the Robert Ellinses', or meetin' up with MacGregor Shinn, the consistent grouch. It begun with window-boxes. Professor Leon Battou, our official wall decorator and actin' cook, springs 'em on me timid one day after lunch. It had been some snack, too--onion soup sprinkled with croutons and sprayed with grated cheese; calf's brains _au buerre noir_; a mixed salad; and a couple of gooseberry tarts with the demi-tasse. Say, I'm gettin' so I can eat in French, even if I can't talk it. And while all that may listen expensive, I have Vee's word for it that since Madame Battou has been doin' the marketin' the high cost of livin' has been jarred off the roost. I don't know how accurate Professor Leon is at countin' up the calories in every meal, but I'm here to announce that he always produces something tasty, with no post-prandial regrets concealed in the bottom of the casserole. "Professor," says I, "I've been a stranger to this burry brains style of nourishment a long time, but you can ring an encore on that whenever you like." He smiles grateful, but shakes his head.