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mop of long black curly hair. It seemed to satisfy him. He turned back, smiling.

"She's pretty sound." He hung his glistening coat behind the door and sank happily on the leather bench that ran along one side of the compartment. "My word, old girl, that smells good!"

The little woman who stood by the oil-stove, diligently stirring the contents of a saucepan, returned his smile.

"Well, you ought to be ready for it: I know I am," she returned. "I gave Nita hers as soon as she came out of the ring and she was asleep ten minutes after."

"I should just about say I was ready." He glanced contentedly round the compartment. The table, screwed to the floor, bore a yellow, checked cloth, spread ready for supper. There were shelves everywhere, with cross-bars to prevent their contents sliding out: cupboards were fitted wherever possible, some with mirror-fronted doors that reflected the gay colors. The whole place was a miracle of contrivance and comfort. And the most heartsome sight in it was little Mrs. Dan, in her yellow overall, bending over the stove that was the pride of her heart, since nothing more complete had ever been designed for a caravan. Big Dan had had it made to his own plan, and had installed it in triumph, declaring that it was "as handy as a pocket in a shirt." Mrs. Dan saw no reason to give it lesser praise. And if, at the moment, the prevailing odor of the caravan was that of fried onions—well, that merely added the final note of perfection for Big Dan.

"Can you wait till I peel off these things?" He glanced

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