f on a fallen
tree-trunk.

"Git busy," he ordered. "Set that doggone water in the tub, an' Sunny
ken dip the boiler full of cold. You boys ken do that while Zip gets
the kids ready. Guess he'll likely know best wher' the strings an'
buttons is."

His orders were silently executed by the men. But the children had no
awe of the gambler, and their protests were many and querulous.
However, the tub was filled satisfactorily, and Scipio finally
succeeded in fumbling the clothes off the children.

It was a curious scene. Scipio moved about with an air of the mildest
perplexity. Sunny slouched through his work as though it were the
hardest of labor, although he was really enjoying himself. Toby was
grinning all over his face with huge enjoyment, while Sandy performed
his share with such an aspect of care that his labors might have been
of an absolutely epoch-making nature. Bill suggested simple authority.
The "kids" must be bathed, and he was going to see it done.

When all preparations had been made, Scipio became the chief operator,
and each man took up his position where best he could witness the
process. There was something so mildly stimulating to these ruffians
in observing the clumsy lavering of two small children. They all
appreciated cleanliness in theory; it was only the practice that they
were unaccustomed to, and here it was being demonstrated before their
interested eyes. They watched Scipio's efforts for some moments in
silence, while he, with gentle persuasion, overcame each childish
protest. He did it in such a kindly, patient way that very soon these
small atoms of humanity, sitting facing each other cross-legged in the
tub, gained ample confidence, and gave expression to infantile delight
by splashing each other with water, and incidentally treating their
father to an even less welcome bath.

They laughed and crowed and chattered while their father plied the
house-flannel, and only were their piping voices quiet at such moments
as their small round faces were smothered with soapsuds, or lost in
the embracing folds of the none too savory cloth.

But on the part of the spectators, their interest would not permit of
long silence. And it was Sandy Joyce, quite irrepressible where advice
was concerned, who found it necessary to interfere.

"Ain't you rubbin' 'em too hard?" he questioned, after prolonged
cogitation.

Scipio turned to reply in the midst of swabbing Jamie's lower limbs.
He was holding one