“'Tis cake, ain't it?” she observed; “or it was, sometime or other. Who made it? You?”
“No.”
“Oh, your boss, Mr.—er—Atkins, hey?”
“Yes. Considering that there are only two of us here, and I didn't make it, it would seem pretty certain that he must have.”
“Yes, I guess that's right; unless 'twas some that washed ashore from Noah's Ark, and it's too dry for that. What on earth are these?” picking up one of the molasses cookies; “stove lids?”
Brown grinned, in spite of his annoyance.
“Those are supposed to be cookies,” he admitted.
“Are they? Yes, yes. Mr. Atkins responsible for them?”
“No—o. I'm afraid those are one of my experiments, under Mr. Atkins's directions and orders. I'm rather proud of those cookies, myself.”
“You'd ought to be. There, there!” with a smile, “I guess you think I'm pretty free with my criticism and remarks, don't you? You must excuse me. Housekeepin'—'specially the cookin' part—is my hobby, as you might say, and I was interested to see how a couple of men got along with the job. I mustn't set around and keep you from your work. You might want to make some more cookies, or somethin'.”