part of the country till one of the hands went up in the
pasture. We mounted and came double quick, I tell you. And we'd have got
here quicker, if I'd known what straits you were in. You're a plucky
lot! Easy there, Mrs. Morton, you are all right, and the fire is safe to
smoke out at its leisure. Here, drink a drop of this whiskey."

Sherm had gathered up Chicken Little and carried her beyond the smoke,
then dropped down beside her with a sigh to recover his breath. He felt
numb and so dazed he hardly heeded what the Captain was saying.

"Pretty well done for, yourself, aren't you, lad?" one of the men
inquired. "You sure knew exactly what to do, if you are a tenderfoot."

Sherm roused himself enough to twist the corners of his mouth into his
wonted smile.

"Me? I didn't do anything--Chicken Little was the boss of this gang."

CHAPTER XVII

THE LOST OYSTER SUPPER

Thanksgiving came and went its turkey-lined way rather lonesomely.
Christmas preparations also lacked their usual zest.

"Everything seems to have caved in round where Ernest was," Chicken
Little confided to Marian. "You see, we always talked everything over
and planned our Christmas together. Sherm takes Ernest's place in lots
of ways, but, of course, he isn't interested in what I'm making for
Mother, or in helping me make $5.25 go clear round the family and piece
out for Katy and Gertie besides."

"If sympathy is all you need, Jane, I can lend you a listening ear."
Marian crocheted another scallop.

"I'd be thankful for a few suggestions, too, I can't think of anything
to send Ernest. When he has to have everything regulation, and the
government furnishes him with every single thing it wants him to have,
why--it's awful."

"Yes, I agree with you--I've been racking my brains for Ernest, too.
Mother is patiently knitting him a muffler, which I know he won't be
permitted to wear, but I haven't the heart to discourage her--she gets
so much comfort out of it. Uncle Sam should be more considerate of fond
female relatives. He might at least tolerate a few tidies and
hand-painted shovels or a home-made necktie."

"Or a throw or a plush table cover with chenille embroidery. Mamie
Jenkins is making one for Mr. Clay. He will be too cross for words. He
loathes Mamie, though he tries not to show it, and plush is his special
abomination. He says it reminds him of caterpillar's fuzz." Chicken
Little's eyes danced maliciously.

Marian looked at her y