ook combine, and
from now on she'll be mighty busy. Get me?"

Biggles stiffens and stares at me haughty. "I don't in the least
understand anything of all this," says he. "I had an appointment with
Marion for this evening; something quite important to--to us both. I may
as well tell you that I had asked Marion a momentous question. I am
waiting for her answer."

"Well, here it is," says I, holdin' out the hat.

Biggles, he gurgles something indignant and turns purple in the gills,
but he ends by snatchin' away the derby and marchin' stiff to the door.

"Understand," says he, with his hand on the knob, "I do not accept your
impertinence as a reply. I--I shall see Marion again."

"Sure you will," says I. "She'll be around to get your dinner order
early next week."

"Bah!" says Biggles, bangin' the door behind him.

But, say, inside of five minutes he'd been wiped off the slate, and them
two girls was plannin' their hot-food campaign as busy and excited as if
it was Marion's church weddin' they were doping out. It's after midnight
before they breaks away, too.

You know Vee, though. She ain't one to start things and then quit. She's
a stayer. And some grand little hustler, too. By Monday mornin' the
Harbor Hills Community Kitchen Co. was a going concern. And before the
week was out they had more'n forty families on the standin' order list,
with new squads of soup scorchers bein' fired every day.

What got a gasp out of me was the first time I gets sight of Marion Gray
in her working rig. Nothing old-maidish about that costume. Not so you'd
notice. She's gone the limit--khaki riding pants, leather leggins and a
zippy cloth cap cut on the overseas pattern. None of them Women's Motor
Corps girls had anything on her. And maybe she ain't some picture, too,
as she jumps in behind the wheel of the truck and steps on the gas
pedal!

Also, I was some jarred to learn that the enterprise was a payin' one
almost from the start. Folks was just tickled to death with havin'
perfectly good meals, well cooked, well seasoned and pipin' hot, set
down at their back doors prompt every day, with no fractious fryin'-pan
pirates growlin' around the kitchens, and no local food profiteers
soakin' 'em with big weekly bills.

This has been goin' on a month, when one day as I comes home Vee greets
me with a flyin' tackle.

"Oh, Torchy!" she squeals, "what do you think has happened?"

"I know," says I. "Baby's cut a tooth."

"No," says