t talk so much. You'll have the stew spoiled
in about one minute," Mother said, severely, to Crook McKusick, and that
mighty leader meekly said, "Yes, ma'am," and trotted to a box on the
far side of the fire.

The rest of the band--eight practical romanticists, each of whom was in
some ways tougher than the others--looked rather sullenly at Mother's
restraining presence, but when the mulligan was served they volunteered
awkward compliments. Veal and chicken and sweet potatoes and Irish
potatoes and carrots and corn were in the stew, and it was very hot, and
there was powerful coffee with condensed milk to accompany it.

Father shook his head and tried to make himself believe that he really
was where he was--in a rim of bare woods reddened with firelight,
surrounding a little stumpy clearing, on one side of which was a shack
covered with tar-paper fastened with laths. The fire hid the storm
behind its warm curtain. The ruffians about the fire seemed to be
customers in a new "T Room" as Mother fussed over them and kept their
plates filled.

Gradually the hoboes thawed out and told the Applebys that they had
permission from the owner of the land to occupy this winter refuge, but
that they liberally "swiped" their supplies from the whole countryside.

Mother exclaimed: "You poor boys, I don't suppose you know any better.
Father, I think we'll stay here for a few days, and I'll mend up the
boys' clothes and teach them not to steal.... You boys--why, here you
are great big grown-up men, and you can jus' as well go out every day
and work enough to get your supplies. No need to be leading an immoral
life jus' because you're tramps. I don't see but what being tramps is
real interesting and healthy, if you jus' go about it in a nice moral
way. Now you with the red hair, come here and wipe the dishes while I
wash them. I swear to goodness I don't believe these horrid tin plates
have been washed since you got them."

As Mother's bland determined oration ended, Crook McKusick, the
hook-nosed leader, glanced at her with a resigned shrug and growled:
"All right, ma'am. Anything for a change, as the fellow said to the
ragged shirt. We'll start a Y. M. C. A. I suppose you'll be having us
take baths next."

The youngster introduced as the K. C. Kid piped up, truculently: "Say,
where do you get this moral stuff? This ain't a Sunday-school picnic;
it's a hoboes' camp."

Crook McKusick vaulted up with startling quickness, seized the