," says Vee, after we've made the rounds inside. "Ten
rooms, just for us!"

"Twelve, countin' the cellar and attic," says I. "But there's more
outside, ain't there?"

Yep, there was. There was an old stable that had been turned into a
garage, with a couple of rooms finished off upstairs. Then there was a
carriage shed, with more rooms over that, also a chicken house beyond.
And stowed away in odd corners was all kinds of junk that might be more
or less useful to have: a couple of lawn-mowers, an old sleigh hoisted
up on the rafters of the carriage house, a weird old buggy, a plow, a
grindstone, a collection of old chairs and sofas that had seen better
days, a birch-bark canoe--things like that.

Then there was our lily pond. We had to walk all round that, poke in
with a pole to see how deep it might be, and wonder if there was any
fish in it. On beyond was some trees--apple and pear and cherry,
accordin' to Vee, and 'way at the back a tall cedar hedge.

"Why, it's almost an estate," says Vee. "Nearly five acres, you know.
How does it seem, Torchy, to think that all this is ours?"

"How?" says I. "Why, I feel like I was the Grand Gazinkus of Gazook."

But, at that, my feelin's wa'n't a marker to the emotions Professor Leon
Battou, our artist-chef, manages to work up. He's so tickled at gettin'
back to the country and away from the city, where him and Madame Battou
come so near starvin' on the street, that he goes skippin' around like a
sunshine kid, pattin' the trees, droppin' down on his hands and knees in
the grass to dig up dandelions, and keepin' up a steady stream of
explosive French and rapid-fire English.

"Ah, but it is all so good!" says he. "_Le bleu ciel, les fleurs, les
oiseaux! C'est bonne, tres bonne. Ne c'est pas?_"

"I expect it is, Leon," says I. "Although I might not state it just that
way myself. Picked out a spot yet for your garden?"

Foolish question! That was his first move, after taking a glance at the
particular brand of cook-stove he'd got to wrestle with. Just to the
left of the kitchen wing is a little plot shut in by privet bushes and a
trellis, which is where he says the _fine herbes_ are meant to grow. He
tows us around there and exhibits it chesty. Mostly it's full of last
year's weeds; but he explains how he will soon have it in shape. And for
the next week the only way we ever got any meals cooked was because
Madame Battou used to go drag him in by the arm and make him quit
dig