Mr. Quince desisted from his fishing operations only when his prey was beyond his reach. Turning to Ike who had regarded his life saving with profound approval, he boasted, "I'd a got him by the britches sure, if he hadn't a bin a settin' down." He rested upon his pole and his eagle eye swept the river, flashing brilliant in the sunshine. Into his face, but recently lighted with enthusiasm, came a look of dissatisfaction, of disappointment, as he confided his woe to the chauffeur. "There hain't nobody ever gits drownded in the old Lame Moose," he complained. "Hain't 'nough water to drownd a weasel." To Ike came comprehension of the troubled soul of the river-man, and he endeavored to comfort him. "Dey am' 'nough water in dis yere river to slac' de thirst o' er g'asshopper," he agreed. Loud conversation took place among the mothers as Dr. Jackson announced his purpose of serving sustenance to those infants whose habit it was to resort to artificial sources for nourishment. Much attention was given to the sterilization of bottles, the measuring of milk, and the addition of lime water thereto. The medical man took the opportunity to deliver a lecture upon the feeding of infants with some reference to their early care and discipline, and Virginia took base advantage of her position as picnic manager to hold the babies while they enjoyed bottled refreshments. She would have also kissed each recipient of her favor had she not been sternly repressed by Dr. Jackson, much to the amusement of Mrs. Henderson. "Let the child kiss the babies if she wants to, Doctor," urged the widow. "No," he refused with firmness. "Kissing is dangerous. Now that we have prohibition, if we could get rid of smoking and kissing, things would be about right." "Are you engaged, Doctor?" "No, certainly not. What made you ask me that, Mrs. Henderson?" "I wonder why I did, myself, Doctor. It was a foolish question." At the close of the infantile banquet, the mothers returned their offspring to the line of cots, where, protected by mosquito netting, they straightway relapsed into slumber. Kelly, who had returned alone from the depths of the woods into which he had departed with the dripping Mr. Jones, was greatly interested, and addressed Miss Knight. "Watch those kids pound their ears! They sure eat sleep as soon as they hit the hay." The nurse looked at the bookkeeper inquiringly. "What are you? Wop, Guiney, Polock or Sheeny?" "Why?" "You must hate the English language. I thought that you must be foreign." His eyes were dancing when he looked at her and said, "My name is Kelly, Miss Knight." "That explains it," she laughed. The bachelor farmer who owned the grove watched the pleasant scene from a seat upon the well curb. Resting upon the damp planking, he philosophically sucked upon a black pipe, and gave ear to the prevalent wisdom on baby feeding. He modified this, no doubt, in his own mind, in the light of his own experience as a successful stock feeder.