Then he touched off the combination. The slivers ignited the
twigs, the twigs set fire to the wigwam, the wigwam started the
firewood. Bennington's honour was vindicated. He felt proud.
Mary, who had been filling the coffee pot at the creek, approached and
viewed the triumph. She cast upon it the glance of scorn.
"That's no cooking fire," said she.
So Bennington, under her directions, placed together the two parallel
logs with the hewn sides and built the small bright fire between them.
"Now you see," she explained, "I can put my frying pan, and coffee pot,
and kettle across the two logs. I can get at them easy, and don't burn
my fingers. Now you may peel the potatoes."
The Easterner peeled potatoes under constant laughing amendment as to
method. Then the small cook collected her materials about her, in grand
preparation for the final rites. She turned back the loose sleeves of
her blouse to the elbow.
This drew an exclamation from Bennington.
"Why, Mary, how white your arms are!" he cried, astonished.
She surveyed her forearm with a little blush, turning it back and
forth.
"I _am_ pretty tanned," she agreed.
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