"There is something weird about this whole proceeding," I observed to
the pretty stenographer next morning.

"These pies will be weird if you don't stop talking to me," she said,
opening the doors of Professor Farrago's portable camping-oven and
peeping in at the fragrant pastry.

The professor had gone off somewhere into the woods early that
morning. As he was not in the habit of talking to himself, the
services of Miss Barrison were not required. Before he started,
however, he came to her with a request for a dozen pies, the
construction of which he asked if she understood. She had been to
cooking-school in more prosperous days, and she mentioned it; so at
his earnest solicitation she undertook to bake for him twelve
apple-pies; and she was now attempting it, assisted by advice from me.

"Are they burned?" I asked, sniffing the air.

"No, they are not burned, Mr. Gilland, but my finger is," she
retorted, stepping back to examine the damage.

I offered sympathy and witch-hazel, but she would have none of my
offerings, and presently returned to her pies.

"We can't eat all that pastry," I protested.

"Professor Farrago said they were not for us to eat," she said,
dusting each pie with powdered sugar.

"Well, what are they for? The dog? Or are they simply objets d'art to
adorn the shanty--"