coat off and his sleeves tucked above his elbows, measured and mixed and beat; at least, Harry did; Roy stood by and did what he was told, but the tasks which fell to him were menial in the extreme. In spite of the limitations of space and utensils, the frying was a big success, and, as Roy was allowed to help himself to the sizzling, hot doughnuts as soon as they were sugared, he regained some degree of happiness.
“There!” exclaimed Harry, when the last batch was being powdered with sugar from an improvised shaker which Roy had fashioned from a baking-powder tin by punching holes in the lid. “That makes eight dozen and three. And then you ate—how many, Roy?”
“Five,” answered Roy, promptly and unblushingly.
“Roy Porter! You won’t have any appetite for dinner!”
“Don’t worry,” Roy laughed. “As long as you’re around I guess I’ll manage to work up an appetite. I suppose we’d better dust the river next or trim the trees.”
“You’re just too lazy for anything,” laughed Harry. “For goodness’ sake go and sit down.”
