"No, Fred. I'll do it."
The boy was so much in earnest that his mother gave in, and with a laugh seated herself by her husband's side, while Fred rattled away among the dishes out in the kitchen as if he was a regular Chinese cook, which many families in California keep in preference to a woman.
"Do you feel any better this morning, Norman?" asked Mrs. Stanley.
"Not much. Perhaps a little. It is very slow."
In spite of herself tears came into the eyes of Mrs. Stanley at her husband's misfortune, but she turned her head away so he would not see them.
"Here we are!" cried Fred suddenly, as he came in with a platter of bacon and eggs in one hand, and some nicely browned toast, on a plate, in the other.
"Grub call!" he added, in imitation of the camp cry.
"Well, you did get up a nice breakfast," complimented his mother.
"I'll bring the coffee in a minute," added the boy as he went back to the kitchen. "You dish out, mother."
The little family gathered around the table, and soon Mr. Stanley had temporarily forgotten about the pain in his leg, while he told Fred something of how to drive an ore cart.