"It's amusing, I don't doubt."
"Not quite that: it's interesting, and I am no longer bewildered at the eighteen hundred a year—that is," he quoted a popular song, "'if there are any more at home like you.'"
She looked at him humorously despairing.
"That's just like an outsider. There are plenty who feel as I do, but they don't say so. Look at old California John, at Ross Fletcher, at a half-dozen others under your very nose. Have you ever stopped to think why they have so long been loyal? I don't suppose you have, for I doubt if they have. But you mark my words!"
"All right, Field Marshal—or is it 'General'?" said Bob.
She laughed.
"Just camp cook," she replied good-humouredly.
The sun was slanting low through the tall, straight trunks of the trees. Amy Thorne arose, gathered a handful of kindling, and began to rattle the stove.
"I am contemplating a real pudding," she said over her shoulder.
Bob arose reluctantly.