"Ah!" says he, rubbin' his hands enthusiastic. "The signor with the yellow gloves? In the tent there you will find heem."
So I steps over to the door of a sort of canvas annex and peers in. And say, it was a rude shock. Forsythe is there, all right. He's snuggled up cozy next to an oil heater, holdin' a watch in one hand and a cigarette in the other, while around him is grouped his faithful fluff body-guard, each with a pan in her lap and the potato-peelin's comin' off rapid. Forsythe? Oh, he seems to be speedin' 'em up and keepin' tally.
I'd just let out my second gasp when I feels somebody at my elbow, and glances round to find it's Miss Jane.
"Look!" says I, indicatin' Forsythe and his busy bees.
"What a picture!" says Miss Jane.
"Yes," says I, "illustratin' the manly art of lettin' the women do it."
Miss Jane laughs easy.
"It has been that way for ages," says she. "Mr. Hurd is only running true to type. But see! The potatoes are nearly all peeled and our dinner is going to be served on time. What splendid assistants you've both been!"
At that, though, if there'd been a medal to be passed out, I guess it would have been pinned on Forsythe.