not?" insisted Grace. "I'm just dying to try one of those motors. I think it would be almost as exciting as driving a car. Do let us Cleo. You know how it works."

"Yes, I know how to touch the button and turn on the switch, but how about making the starch?"

Everybody joined in the laugh that followed the admission of not knowing the common kitchen starch process, while having an idea of a modern electric appliance.

"That's what ails our domestic science class. We study the washing machine, but omit the starch," said Louise. "Well, suppose we do just that and don't bother with the stiffness."

Teased into compliance Cleo led her chums to the out-of-door laundry, which was built as a part of the bathing houses just off the kitchen.

It might have been the lure of the nice new, white washing machine, with its buzzing electric motor, but whatever the cause the girls finally succeeded in winning Cleo's permission that they try it.

"I'm going to be boss," insisted Margaret, rolling up her sleeves with more gusto than seemed necessary, for in the process her fist came in contact with Cleo's eye.

The friendly bout that followed delayed the washing somewhat, but the scouts were at least on their way.

They had the log cabin all to themselves; and the manner in which they took possession might have been taken to indicate they had the world to themselves, for they made quite as much noise as a real troop, instead of the prospective summer troop they were forming themselves into.

"Now first," ordered Margaret, giving her skirt a very effective but unnecessary hitch, "first we sort the clothes."

"Ye-s—" agreed Julia. "But h-o-w?"

"Why just sort them, of course," evaded Margaret.

"Into nice neat little heaps," offered Cleo, stretching out a sheet on the narrow floor, and thereby doing deadly damage to the white muslin.

"I know that the table linen should be absolutely separate," declared Julia authoritatively, beginning on the small collection of table stuff. "Please Grace, fetch me the basket."

"I need the basket for my collection," objected Grace. "Mine is much the most. I have the underlies," she catalogued, holding up a dainty hand-made camisole that was surely never intended to enter an amateur washing contest.

"Lovely," exclaimed Louise, dropping a pair of silk hose into the neat little pile of table linen.

"There," cried Margaret. "We surely didn't undertake this as an inspection. Let's get right at the wash, Cleo, please put some water in the machine."

"However do you do that?" asked Grace in genuine awe, for plainly the washing machine was not connected with any water faucet.

"Why, I have to put that hose on that tub over there and fill it that way," proudly explained the wash-day hostess. "I should think, Margaret, if you are going to be boss you would understand something of the system," she joked.

"Oh, I just love to be Margaret-by-the-day," answered the self-appointed supervisor, "but even she, you remember, did not know all about electric washing machines. Now let's see how the hose works."

But no need to see, they could feel, for the hose had slipped from its niche in the washing machine, and seemed to be pouring out volumes of water on everybody.

"Turn it off," shouted Louise, already pretty wet and surely getting wetter.

To save more direct contact Cleo had pointed the nozzle at the roof, and now a light shower was descending on the erstwhile washerwomen, and their pretty little piles of selected apparel.

Presently the faucet was reached and the hose properly directed into the cylinder, and while the water flowed in, Margaret put down the first batch, which was quite properly composed of the table linen.

"Now the washing powder," called Cleo. "Here it is all nicely stocked and ready. I think it should be very lightly sprinkled on."

"Oh no, never!" protested Louise. "That would simply eat holes in everything. You have to dilute it. I heard our maid say so."

"All right, I just as soon," agreed Cleo, giggling helplessly. "But go ahead and dilute. I'm having trouble enough here."

"Say," inquired Julia innocently. "I thought these electric washing machines did all the washing. Why don't they do it then?" and this afforded a new cause for laughter that simply demoralized the entire squad.

Finally Grace had diluted the washing powder and was pouring it over the linen, regardless of their lovely colored borders, that should never have known anything stronger than the purest soap. Then the cylinder cover was clapped on and fastened (Cleo understood the importance of this), and while all the girls stood at a safe distance she threw in the switch, and touched the button.

Thereat the Girl Scouts' washing went on as merrily as a merry-go-round at a picnic.

"We can go out and play croquet while it washes," announced Cleo grandly. "That's the beauty of these washers."

They agreed that was real beauty, and off they romped to the brand new croquet set, to try their skill at pegging balls under wire wickets.

"I think I'll go in and make the starch," Margaret proposed, as she missed a wire. "Those clothes will be done presently, and we mustn't wait too long between the acts. You know how tiresome that always is."

"Well, if you insist," replied Cleo. "You will find the starch where I got the powder. Just help yourself," and off went the practical Margaret, quite determined to earn her title of "boss."

But there were no directions on the starch box. That was queer thought the little scout, every box should carry its own directions. But of course, it must be very simple to make starch.

One pours water on it surely, she did that. Then one cooks it—Margaret proceeded to do that, and before she could reach a spoon to stir the mass, the lovely white starch had congealed into a big bubbly pan cake, that wouldn't stir, wouldn't turn and wouldn't—do anything, but burn—and my, how it did burn!

"Looks like a real pudding," she told herself in desperation, trying frantically to move the mass from the bottom of the white enameled pan.

The odor of the burning starch brought her companions in on a run.

"What's the matter? Don't burn down the house," implored Grace. "My, that's worse than the fish cake Cleo burned in the mud hole in the woods. You don't make starch solid, Margy, you have to make it runny, all gooy like, don't you know?"

"Of course, I know," retorted Margaret, "but I didn't do this, it did itself. I had it all nice and gooy for about half a second, then it cemented into adamant. There! I hate starch!" she admitted, ending up in a gale of laughter that advertised defeat.

"Oh, run out and stop that motor Louise," called Cleo. "It has been running half an hour."

As the starch making process was being operated in the kitchen, and the machine was out in the laundry, Louise left the former conference to attend to the latter requirement.

"Oh my!" shouted Louise, "Come here, it's shooting sparks all over!"

And just as she said, the motor was emitting a series of flashes that flew around with absolute disregard of aim or purpose.

It took sometime for Cleo to get up courage enough to touch the black button, and when finally the machine stopped the little group looked about at the ruin of their hopes.

Then they laughed, and laughed, and roared and laughed, until Julia ran over to her cottage, fairly kidnapped her own faithful maid, who, to save further disaster, came to the log cabin and reluctantly finished the unfortunate wash.

As the girls hung the pretty white garments on the line, they each