and peeked in at the goin's-on in the kitchen.
The doughnut-fryin' was in progress at that minute (I'd guessed it already from the smell), and helpin' at it were no less than a dozen or fifteen great, big, healthy-lookin' soldier boys in uniform. A half-a-dozen of them were gathered 'round the fat on the stove; two or three others 'round a table, where one, with a woman's blue checked apron tied 'round him, was busy with the dough and cutter; and a few more were just simply takin' up room, and makin' a lot of talk and noise. One of 'em was perched up on an edge of the kitchen sink, sort of purrin' on a Jew's-harp. Over by the window where in the winter-time the geraniums in cans used to set on the sill, seated in the old high-backed rocker was Gramp Janse ('twasn't till later I learned there wasn't any Gram Janse any more) with his hands folded 'cross his stomach, kind of smilin' to himself, lookin' on interested, as if he was at a play in the theater or something.
I didn't get a glimpse of Isabel at first, but every little while I saw her hand shoot up over the heads of the men grouped 'round the stove (at least I guessed 'twas hers) as she held up a long fork with a golden-brown doughnut—color of a trout pool when the sun strikes it—drippin' on the end of it.
