I didn't blame the soldiers for sendin' up a shout every time Isabel's hand shot up. Nothin' so good in the world to sink your teeth into as a fresh doughnut sizzlin' with the fat it was born in, crisp as a fresh potato-chip on the outside, soft as a fresh griddle-cake on the in, and so pipin' hot you got to open your mouth, and draw in, or get burned.
I was glad when two of the men 'round the stove shouted: "Cheese," and with a doughnut stuck onto each thumb went off into the front room where the cow's part of the show was. For then I got a chance to see Isabel.
She was standin' close up to the stove, with one hand on her hip, and the other busy with the fork dabbin' at the doughnuts in the fat-pot. She was standin' real straight and perky-like. She still wore a gray wrapper, but it was pulled in tight 'round her waist, and, as I looked at the profile of her figure, and remembered how awful shapeless and scrawny it used to be, I wondered if she might not have made use of a few ruffles or somethin'. She had a red ribbon tied 'round her waist, and a red bow to match 'round the neck of her dress, that was turned down low. And her hair was curled in the front, and in the back I saw something sparklin' that looked mighty like my rhinestone comb!
