ho appeared undismayed at the
prospect of swallowing worms. Then she looked at Frank. He was evidently
doubtful. His faith in boiling did not save him from a certain shrinking
from wormy soup.

"Once we were out for a picnic," said Priscilla, "and when we'd finished
tea we found a frog, dead, of course, in the bottom of the kettle. It
hadn't flavoured the tea in the least In fact we didn't know it was
there till afterwards."

She poured out the cold soup into the two cups and the enamelled mug as
she spoke. Then she handed the pot to Jimmy.

"Run now," she said, "and fill that up with your dirty water. We'll
have the stove lit and the other packet of soup ready by the time you're
back."

The soup which had not boiled away was very thick indeed. It turned out
to be impossible to drink it But Priscilla discovered that it could be
poured out slowly, like clotted cream on pieces of bread held ready for
it under the rims of the cups. It remained, spreading gradually, on top
of the bread long enough to allow a prompt eater to get the whole thing
into his mouth without allowing any of the soup to be wasted by dripping
on to the ground. The flavour: was excellent.

Jimmy returned with the water. Miss Rutherford put the pot on the stove
at once. It was better, she said, to boil it without looking at it.

"The directions for use," said Priscilla, "say that the water should be
brought to the boil before the soup is put in. But that, of course,
is ridiculous. We'll put the dry soup in at once and let it simmer. I
expect the flavour will come out all right if we leave it till it does
boil."

"In the meanwhile," said Miss Rutherford, "we'll attack the Californian
peaches."

They ate them, as they had eaten the others the day before, in their
fingers, straight out of the tin with greedy rapture. Five half peaches,
nearly all the juice, and a large chunk of bread, were given to Jimmy
Kinsella, who carried them off and devoured them in privacy behind his
boat.

"Tomorrow," said Priscilla, "we'll have another go at the spies. They're
desperately afraid of us. I could see that when they were escaping
across Finilaun harbour."

"By the expression of their faces?" said Miss Rutherford.

"Not exactly. It was more the way they were going on. Sylvia Courtney
was once learning off a poem called 'The Ancient Mariner.' That was when
she was going in for the prize in English literature. She and I sleep in
the same room and she used