He pounced on another story.  This led him to a second incursion on the meagre library.  Bob did not recognize the practical, rather hard Thorne of everyday official life.  The man was carried away by his eagerness to interpret the little East Indian to these comrade spirits of the West.  The rangers listened with complete sympathy, every once in a while throwing in a comment or a criticism, never hesitating to interrupt when interruption seemed pertinent.

Finally Amy, who had all this time been sewing away unmoved, a half-tender, half-amused smile curving her lips, laid down her work with an air of decision.

“I’ll call your attention,” said she, “to the fact that I’m hungry.  Shut up your book; I won’t hear another word.”  She leaned across the table, and, in spite of Thorne’s half-earnest protests, took possession of the volume.

“Besides,” she remarked, “look at poor Jack Pollock; he’s been popping corn like a little machine, and he must be nearly roasted himself.”

Jack turned to her a face very red from the heat of the leaping pine fire.

“That’s right,” he grinned, “but I got about a dishpan done.”

“You’ll be in practice to fight fire,” some one chaffed him.

“Oh, he’ll fight fire all right, if there’s somethin’ to eat the other side,” drawled Charley Morton.

“It’s plenty,” said Amy, referring to the quantity of popcorn.

“Why,” spoke up California John in an aggrieved and surprised tone, “ain’t there nobody going to eat popcorn but me?”

Amy disappeared only to return bearing a cake frosted with chocolate.  The respect with which this was viewed proved that the men appreciated to the full what was represented by chocolate cake in this altitude of tiny stoves and scanty supplies.  Again Amy dove into the store room.  This time she bore back a huge enamel-ware pitcher which she set in the middle of the round table.

“There!” she cried, her cheeks red with triumph.

“What you got, Amy?” asked her brother.

Ross Fletcher leaned forward to look.

“Great guns!” he cried.

The men jostled around, striving for a glimpse, half in joke, half in genuine curiosity.

“Lemonade!” cried Ware.

“None of your lime juice either,” pronounced California John; “look at the genuine article floatin’ around on top.”

They turned to Amy.

“Where did you get them?” they demanded.

But she shook her head, smiling, and declined to tell.

They devoured the popcorn and the chocolate cake to the last crumb, and emptied the pitcher of genuine lemonade.  Then they went home.  It was all simple enough:  cheap tobacco; reading aloud; a little rude chaffing; lemonade, cake and popcorn!  Bob smiled to himself as he thought of the consternation a recital of these ingredients would carry to the sophisticated souls of most of his friends.  Yet he had enjoyed the party, enjoyed it deeply and thoroughly.  He came away from it glowing with good-fellowship.