'Look here,' the owner said, nearly bursting with pride, 'up there, that's the fly, keeps it cool. I can sit in it on the hottest day.'
'No one else could,' laughed Bart.
Roly took no heed of the depreciation.
'See that? That's my water-bag; hang it in a draught, and it's as cool as you like.'
'No,' said Bart again, 'only as you like.'
'See this? Keep my meat in it, flies can't get in, hang it up out of the way. Here's my gridiron—here's my frying-pan.'
'Why,' cried Hermie, 'Miss Browne's been looking for the frying-pan all the morning!'
'Let her cook her things in the oven,' said Roly. 'See this? It's my bunk, made it myself—just legs of trees, and you stretch canvas on it. No sheets for me, only this blue blanket——'
The blanket moved convulsively, a little brown bare foot was sticking out of one end of it, a strand of straight light hair showed at the other.
'Flossie!' the mother cried, and made a rush at the bunk.