ny potatoes. One who could make the peel. Please!"

"Oh!" says I. "Peelin' potatoes! Why, 'most anybody could help out at
that, I guess. I would myself if----"

"No," breaks in Miss Jane. "You cannot be spared. And I'm sure I don't
know who could."

"Unless," I puts in, "Mr. Hurd is all through with his decoratin'."

"Why, to be sure," says she. "Just tell him, will you?"

"Suppose I send him over to you, Miss Gorman," says I, "while I hustle
along that piano?"

She nods, and I lose no time trailin' down Forsythe.

"Emergency call for you from Miss Jane," says I, edgin' in among his
admirers and tappin' him on the shoulder. "She's waitin' over by
headquarters."

"Oh, certainly," says Forsythe, startin' off brisk.

"And say," I calls after him, "I hope it won't be anything that'll make
you faint."

"Please don't worry about me," says he.

Well, I tried not to. In fact, I tried so hard that some folks might
have thought I'd heard good news from home. But I'd had a peek or two
into the camp kitchen since Zaretti's food construction squad had moved
in, and, believe me, it was no place for an artistic temperament,
subject to creeps up the back. There was about a ton of cold-storage
turkeys bein' unpacked, bushels of onions goin' through the shuckin'
process, buckets of soup stock standin' around, and half a dozen
murderous-lookin' assistant chefs was sharpenin' long knives and
jabberin' excited in four languages.

Oh, yes; Forsythe was goin' to need all the inspiration he'd collected,
if he lasted through.

I kind of wanted to stick around and cheer him up with friendly words
while he was fishin' potatoes out of the cold water and learnin' to use
a peelin'-knife, but my job wouldn't let me. After I'd seen the piano
landed on the new stage, there were chairs to be placed for the
orchestra, and then other things. So it was some little time before I
got around to the kitchen wing again, pretendin' to be lookin' for
Zaretti. But nowhere in that steamin', hustlin', garlic-smellin' bunch
could I see Forsythe.

"Hey, chef!" I sings out. "Where's that expert potato-peeler I sent
you?"

"Ah!" says he, rubbin' his hands enthusiastic. "The signor with the
yellow gloves? In the tent there you will find heem."

So I steps over to the door of a sort of canvas annex and peers in. And
say, it was a rude shock. Forsythe is there, all right. He's snuggled up
cozy next to an oil heater, holdin' a watch in one hand and a ci