Somehow he was beginning to enter more into the spirit of the thing, beginning to feel an interest, almost an enjoyment, in doing it up thoroughly. Having taken off coat and sweater, his first act was to prepare the chicken for roasting. When it was safely placed in the oven he shook down the fire, added some more wood, and then turned his attention to a pile of unwashed dishes, which the indolent Hinckley was evidently accumulating until he considered it sizeable enough to be worth tackling. It was a task the boy ordinarily hated, but he meant to leave the room spick and span on his departure. So he rolled up his shirt-sleeves and plunged in, whistling softly as he worked. [Illustration: "What d'you want?" he demanded] Old Caleb Grimstone followed the boy's movements almost in silence. He had gruffly told him where he could find a pan for the chicken, and once he snapped out at one of the dogs who had come forth from under the table and was sniffing at Dale's legs. But for the most part he sat motionless beside the stove, his eyes, under their beetling brows, fixed intently on the busy figure with that same puzzled questioning in their depths. At last, when Dale had pared the potatoes and put them on to boil, he suddenly growled, "Are you one of them boys that come sneakin' around the lake last summer?" Dale reddened a little, but did not hesitate. "I was out here two or three times, I guess," he acknowledged. The old man sniffed. "I s'pose you call _that_ one o' them 'good turns'--trespassin' on a person's property, an' payin' no attention to signs, an' all," he remarked. "I wasn't a scout then," said Dale. He got a broom from the corner, and on his way past the old man's chair he paused, his eyes twinkling a bit. "Anyhow, on a roasting hot day you know a fellow'll do 'most anything to get a swim. I expect you were that way yourself, Mr. Grimstone, when you were a boy." "Huh!" grunted the old man, disagreeably, but he made no further comment. Once or twice, as he swept, Dale glanced curiously at the silent figure by the stove and wondered what the old fellow was thinking about. His eyes no longer followed the boy with sharp suspicion. His head was bent a little, and he stared blankly, unseeingly, at a knot in the board at his feet. For a long time he did not stir, save once to lift the thin, veined hand from the chair-arm, only to grip it again with a force that made the knuckles stand out white against the brown skin. At length, with a sigh, checked almost in its birth, he raised his head and frowned at Tompkins. "Ain't you goin' to baste that fowl at all?" he inquired sharply. Dale started guiltily at the reminder and hastened to the oven. The fowl was browning nicely, and as he spooned up the sizzling juices, he hoped his forgetfulness wasn't going to make any difference in its flavor.