Johnnie had on his scout uniform. And it was remarkable what that uniform always did for him in the matter of changing his feelings toward the longshoreman. The big, old, ragged clothes on, the boy might be glad to see Barber go for the day, and even harbor a little of his former hate for him; but the scout clothes once donned, their very snugness seemed to straighten out his thoughts as well as his spine, the former being uplifted, so to speak, along with Johnnie's chin! Yes, even the buttons of the khaki coat, each embossed with the design of the scout badge, helped him to that state of mind which Cis described as "good turny." Now as he scanned the pages of the cookbook, those two upper bellows pockets of his beloved coat (his father's medal was in the left one) heaved up and down proudfully at the mere thought of to-day's good deed. He began to chant another recipe: "'One pint of milk, three tablespoonfuls of sugar, two heapin' tablespoonfuls of cornstarch'----" Another halt. The cupboard boasted no cornstarch. Nor was there gelatine in stock, with which to make a gay-colored, wobbly jelly. As for prune souffle, he could make that easily enough. But--the longshoreman did not want to lay eyes on another prune souffle before Washington's Birthday, at least, and the natal anniversary of the Father of His Country was still a long way off. Apple fritters, then? But they took apples. And brown betty had the boldness to demand molasses on top of apples! He turned more pages. Then he found his recipe. He knew that the moment his eye caught the name--"poor man's pudding." He bustled about, washing some rice, then making the fire. All the while he hummed softly. He was especially happy these days, for only the week before he had been visited by his Uncle Albert, looking a trifle changed after these five years, but still the kindly, cheerful Uncle Albert of the old days in the rich man's garage. He fell to talking aloud. "I got milk," he said, "and I got salt, and sugar, and the rinds o' some oranges. They're dry, but if I scrape 'em into the puddin', Mrs. Kukor says they'll make it taste fine! I'll give Mister Barber a bowl t' eat it out of. My! how he'll smack!" At this point, the wide, old boards of the floor gave a telltale snap. It was behind him, and so loud that it shattered his vision of Big Tom and the pudding bowl. Some one was in the room! Father Pat? Mrs. Kukor? One-Eye? He turned a smiling face. What he saw made him even forget that he had on the beloved scout suit. In the first shock, he wondered how they could have come up and in without his hearing them; and, second, if he was just thinking one of his thinks, and had himself lured these two familiar shapes into the kitchen. For there, in arm's length of him, standing face to face, were--Big Tom and Cis.