Disclaimer: This work is based on characters created by someone else. No profit is made by me and there's absolutely no reason for the copyright holders to be upset.

Feedback: Comments welcome at lwalker@owlcroft.com

A/N: My thanks to the ever-helpful betas, SZ and LML, who turned this response to a forum challenge into a story.

Frank Harper yawned, stretched and looked at his watch. "I gotta get going, guys. Gotta stop off at the market and get a coupla TV dinners. "

Judge Hardcastle gathered up the papers from the patio table and put them in a file folder, looking thoughtful. Then he nodded suddenly. "That's right! Claudia's away for the weekend, isn't she?"

"Yeah." Harper stood and shook down his pant legs. "She's visiting her sister. Maybe I'll just get a couple of burgers to take home."

"Why not stick around and have dinner with us?" Mark McCormick reached across the glass-topped table to snag Harper's coffee cup. "I made beef stew and there's plenty."

"Yeah, Frank. Why not?" Hardcastle looked inquiringly at his friend. "McCormick makes a pretty decent stew and we got garlic bread to go with it. You got nothing else going on, right?"

Harper stood undecided for a moment, then grinned and said, "Yeah, why not? Better than going back to a dark house, anyway. Thanks. I appreciate it."

"Sure thing." The judge led the way into the kitchen. "I'll just put the file away and find a bottle of red wine to open."

"Hey, don't go to any bother on my account." Harper held the back door open for McCormick who was carrying a tray of coffee paraphernalia.

"Shhh!" hissed McCormick. "If he thinks of you as company, he'll open something really good!"

"Oh." Harper closed the door behind himself and lounged against the counter. "Can I help with something?"

"Nah. Well, yeah." Mark was unloading the tray onto the counter. "You could get out some wine glasses." He straightened to look at Frank. "Unless you'd really rather have beer?"

"Actually, a glass of wine sounds real good right now." Harper rubbed a hand over his face and then started opening cabinets at random. "It's been a helluva week, and I'm in the mood to just completely forget about bad guys and paperwork and office politics. Oh, here they are."

Hardcastle came back into the kitchen carrying a bottle. "Great, thanks, Frank. McCormick, where'd ya put the corkscrew?"

"It's where it's always been, Judge. In that drawer, right next to the bottle opener."

"Well, it's not there now. Where'd ya put it?"

"I didn't put it anywhere." Mark's tone was a little exasperated. "It's in that drawer."

"No, it isn't." The judge rummaged through the contents of the drawer in irritation. "Come on, where'd ya put it?"

"Ju-udge." McCormick stepped over to the drawer and looked for himself. "It's in here somewhere!"

"Hey, guys," said Frank mildly, "I got one in my glove compartment."

"Nah, we got one, if somebody didn't keep moving it. Hah!" Triumphantly, Hardcastle held up a corkscrew he'd taken from the drawer next to the one McCormick was searching through. "Told ya!"

"Well, I hate to break it to you, Hardcase, but you were the last person to use the damned thing, so it would've been you who put it in the wrong drawer." Mark went back to loading the dishwasher with coffee cups.

"I did not put it in the wrong drawer!"

"Guys!" Harper held up his hands. "I'm dying of thirst here!"

McCormick's stew was pretty good, the store-bought garlic bread was fine, and the wine was excellent.

Frank leaned back comfortably with his third glass and listened to McCormick's cuisine-related anecdotes.

"Then, she fixed some eggs one morning. Just scrambled, you know? Nothing fancy. But while I was eating them, I kept thinking what was wrong with those chickens?" Mark shook his head, grinning. "So she comes in and asks me how I liked the eggs. Well, what am I gonna say? So I said they were fine and she says 'Great! I'll keep putting orange juice in them'!"

Frank laughed so hard he nearly spilt his wine. "Are you serious?"

"I swear!" Mark was also laughing. "I never let her cook another thing!"

Hardcastle was shaking his head and grinning. "Coulda been worse. What about that soup you made once? You put chopped up sauerkraut and hot dogs in tomato sauce and called it wiener soup."

Harper put his glass down and wiped his eyes.

"Oh, please." He took a deep breath. "Don't tell me any more."

"Well, that wasn't as bad as his macrobiotic mess." The judge starting collecting bowls. "I ever tell you about that?"

McCormick stood to help with the clean-up. "That wasn't so bad if you put enough ketchup on it. Oh! And that reminds me of those sandwiches you made when we were out of lunchmeat. Frank, can you believe this guy? He made sandwiches out of ketchup and potato chips!"

"Hey, I used to have those when I was a kid," said Hardcastle defensively. "And I noticed you ate your share. Frank, you want some dessert? We got ice cream and cookies."

Harper finished his wine, belched politely and said, "Nah, thanks anyway, Milt. Listen, this was terrific. Great stew, Mark. I really appreciate it, but I think I've imposed enough--"

"What're ya talking about, impose?" The judge drew himself up and glared. "What? Are you in hurry to get home to a dark house? You got something waiting for you to do at home?"

McCormick yelled from the kitchen, "He's right, Frank. Besides, there's more than half a bottle of wine left." He appeared in the kitchen door. "You can't let Hardcase drink it all by himself."

"Milt, I told you you shouldn't have opened that second bottle." Harper sighed, then grinned at the judge. "Well, if you're sure I'm not in the way or anything?"

"And you're gonna need some coffee later if you're gonna drive home. Now you let us clear up a little and you can carry the bottle and glasses into the den." Hardcastle headed into the kitchen and Mark came out to wipe down the table.

"No, not mine," he said to Harper. "Two glasses is my limit, then I switch to beer."

"You know, this is really nice of you guys. I wasn't looking forward to going home to an empty house." Frank cradled two glasses and the bottle. "I always think it's like camping out when Claudia's away. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, well, why not camp out here instead?" Hardcastle came back from the kitchen carrying a bowl of almonds. "You know I got plenty of room here and that way you don't have to drive anywhere tonight. I bet you got an overnight case in your car, right?"

"Yeah, but I can't do that." Harper shook his head reluctantly. "Honest, Milt. It's terrific of you to ask, but . . ."

"Why not?" Mark finished with the table and ducked back into the kitchen to dispose of the crumbs. He came back out with a can of beer. "Anybody expecting you to be somewhere this weekend?"

"No, that's not it. I just . . . I don't know. It seems like I'd be--"

"Imposing. In the way. Unwelcome. Out of place. Come on, Frank." The judge took Harper's arm and led him to the den. "It's all settled. Now, you like almonds, right? We also got walnuts, if you'd rather."

Harper and Hardcastle spent most the evening talking over old cases and memories of old friends. Frank showed off his talent of shooting almonds into his mouth by pinching the pointed end. Mark put two almonds under his upper lip and pretended to be a vampire. The judge proved he could still throw an almond into the air and catch it in his mouth with his eyes closed.

When the cop reminiscences palled on McCormick, he turned on the television and found a Japanese soap opera set in Samurai times. Not being familiar with the language, he made up his own dialogue.

"Henrietta," he growled as a Samurai advanced on a shrinking young lady, "you've starched my shorts for the last time."

Frank turned to look and started giggling as McCormick said in a fluting falsetto, "Oh, Marvin, I admire a man who's able to be forceful in a dress."

Even Hardcastle laughed when it turned out the "forceful Marvin" got hives from eating tuna and "Henrietta" promised to serve him peanut butter and jelly sushi.

"Okay, I'm done," said Mark as the closing credits rolled. "I'll see you two in the morning." He turned at the top of the steps to the foyer. "Don't keep him up all night, Frank. It makes him cranky."

"I'm never cranky!" The judge turned to McCormick. "You doing breakfast tomorrow?"

"Yeah, nine o'clock okay with you, Frank?"

"Nine!" Hardcastle was outraged.

"Ju-udge," McCormick rolled his eyes toward Harper. "We have company, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. Nine." The judge looked at his 'company'. "That work for you, Frank?"

Harper looked skyward. "Why do I get the feeling I'm the excuse for someone else sleeping late?"

Mark laughed and said, "Nine it is!" and left, slamming the front door.

"That kid is something else, Milt." Frank stretched, then stood to gather up glasses and the empty bowl. "I don't know if you got lucky with this one, or you actually knew what you were doing when you picked him."

Hardcastle took the bowl and led Frank to the kitchen. "Probably a little of both. Ya don't get too many guys coming through the system using humor as a defense." He motioned to the counter. "Put 'em right there." He put the bowl in the dishwasher then picked up the wine glasses. "I read the transcripts before his trial and he came across as the usual smart-mouth, but in the court room, where you could see his expressions . . . well, it was different. He wasn't so much mouthing off as asking everybody to join him in seeing the humor in the situation."

Harper grunted, then asked, "But you think he wasn't just cracking wise? He was using it to . . . what, distance himself from the circumstances?"

"Yeah, something like that." The judge closed the dishwasher and leaned against the counter. "Most guys on the stand either didn't look at me or looked at me with hatred or fear or anger. The D.A. put McCormick on the stand and asked him 'do you think it's okay to take somebody else's car?' You know what he said?"

Frank shook his head.

"He said 'it's okay with me if you want to take somebody else's car'. Then he looked at me with this little grin like we were sharing a joke. 'Course, that didn't go over real big with the D.A., but I swear I looked right through those eyes to see a kid in there who really didn't understand what kind of trouble he was in and was trying hard to keep it all together. Made a real impression on me." The judge straightened up and clapped his hands together. "Well, let me show you your room."

Harper followed him out to the hallway and up the stairs. "Milt, I just can't tell you how great this is. But I don't want to be a bother."

"No bother at all." Hardcastle opened a door near the top of the stairs. "Here you go. Got your own bathroom right through there. Anything ya need?"

Frank looked around the guest room and smiled. "It's fine. But, look, maybe I can help out tomorrow with some of your files or something. You know, kind of haul my own freight."

"You really want to fit in around here? Be on the court at seven-thirty for a little three-man b-ball."

Harper laughed and said, "Maybe I'll just sleep in."

Over post-breakfast coffee by the pool, the idea for a camp came up again.

"I gotta say, if this is what camping is like, I'm sorry I never went," sighed Harper with a smile.

"You never went to a summer camp, Frank?" Hardcastle made a motion with the coffee pot.

Harper shook his head and said, "Nope. I don't think my folks could afford it."

"How about you, kiddo? You ever go to camp?"

McCormick snorted. "Yeah, I went to camp. Camp Lock-Em-Up, courtesy of the State of New Jersey."

There was a short silence, then Mark said, "So tell us about camp, Judge. Was it all just stringing beads and canoes on the lake?"

Hardcastle poured himself another half-cup of coffee and stirred it thoughtfully. "Nah. I mean, yeah, we did that stuff, but we did a lot of other things, too."

"So, like what?" Mark wrapped his hands around his nearly empty mug and looked across the table at the judge.

"Well," the judge tilted his head back and smiled slightly. "We learned to make a fire with a piece of string and a stick, we tracked animals through the woods, had about a thousand games of tug-o-war, learned not to touch poison sumac, all kinds of fun stuff."

"Yeah, that last one sounds really great," Frank chuckled.

"No, really, it was fun." Hardcastle shook his head. "Just being out there with kids your own age, playing games and cooking hot dogs over a fire you'd made yourself. It was terrific."

"We could do the hot dogs part," said McCormick slowly. His eyes got that gleam that the judge and Frank recognized as indicating an idea had occurred. "In fact, we could have our own camp! Yeah!" He sat up straight and beamed at the others. "We could do all that stuff we never got a chance to do when we were kids, right, Frank? We could have a picnic on the beach, maybe do a little fishing, track rabbits through the eucalyptus trees, build a fire in the den and toast marshmallows and all kinds of stuff!"

Harper smiled, mostly at Mark's enthusiasm, but also because the idea appealed to him. "Sounds great, Mark. What do you think, Milt? You'd be the camp counselor, I guess, or whatever they're called."

"Okay. Yeah, it could be a lot of fun." Hardcastle rubbed his hands together and grinned. "First thing everybody learns is to clean up after himself." He looked at McCormick. "We'll all clear up here, then I'm putting you on kitchen duty. You'll be in charge of food." He turned to the other man, "Frank, you're gonna be equipment and conveyance, which means you'll fetch and carry."

Mark was up and piling plates. "And what're you gonna be doing all this time?"

"I'm in charge of the details. You know, the schedule of events, organizational oversight, the camp song, camp motto, stuff like that."

"Sounds to me," said Harper, collecting the coffee mugs, "like you just said you get to tell us what to do."

"Sounds to me," said McCormick, heading for the kitchen with the breakfast plates, "like some things never change.

"McCormick!"

Mark looked up from the tackle box in the closet and yelled back, "What?"

"Hey! McCormick!"

Mark stood up and shook his head. "Anyway, I guess we could just take the whole thing, Frank. What do you think? You're in charge of conveyance."

"Yeah, I'll figure it out. You go see what Milt wants."

McCormick sauntered into the kitchen just as Hardcastle was drawing another deep breath to yell his name.

"Where are the pickles?" asked the judge brusquely. "You forgot to put 'em on the list, didn't you? I knew you'd forget if they weren't on the list."

"I didn't forget. They're in the fridge," Mark replied in an irritated tone. "Why didn't you look, Judge? Where'd you think they'd be?"

"Well, they're not in there, because I did look, so you musta forgot to get some more. Dammit, how're we gonna have a picnic without pickles? How many times have I told ya to write stuff down!"

"I didn't forget! They're in the door of the fridge, right here," McCormick opened the fridge door and pointed. "See?"

"Don't put glass jars in the door," said the judge with a pained look. "I've told ya and told ya! Glass can fall out and break!"

Mark scowled at him. "And I've told you, that's not gonna happen, and even if it, I'd be the one to clean it up anyway, so-"

"Hey, guys!" Harper said in a determinedly cheerful voice. "Who's ready for the beach?"

After lunch on the beach, the judge held a class on knot-tying. Frank proved unusually adept and McCormick quick to learn the patterns, but too intrigued by other possibilities to focus on learning one at a time.

"Okay." Hardcastle stood and brushed sand off his jeans. "It's time for a little fishing. Let's see who can catch us some dinner."

In the end, none of them caught anything in the rough surf off the beach, but they enjoyed the experience, especially since none of them had wanted to clean the catch anyway.

"Well, we were planning on hot dogs over the fire." The judge packed up the tackle box. "Oh, we better get 'em out of the freezer! Come on, get all this stuff together and let's get back. I got a great book on local plants and animals to take on our nature hike."

McCormick grinned at Harper. "Frank, you're in charge of conveying."

Harper grinned back at him. "Being in charge means I get to delegate."

"I hope these thaw in time," said Mark dubiously, looking at the packages of hot dogs.

Frank shrugged. "You can always thaw them in the microwave if they don't."

"Yeah, but the judge says that makes them taste funny." McCormick tossed the packages into the fridge. "'Taste funny', hah. Prison hot dogs are the worst tasting hot dogs you could ever have. They had these nasty little chewy bits in the middle and--"

Frank looked up from the race car-shaped salt cellar he was toying with. "And?"

"Nothing." Mark went to the sink and filled a glass with water.

"Gristle," said Frank mildly. "Makes sense, I guess. They gotta buy the cheap stuff to feed that many, so you got the stuff with the cows' lips and noses and all."

"Yuck!" Mark put the glass on the counter. He stood for a moment with his back to Harper, then turned and said, "That's one of the things I like most about you. When I mention prison, you don't get all tense and defensive. You just . . . I dunno, take it as a matter of fact and go right on."

"Milt tenses up?" Harper put the salt cellar back on the table under the window.

"Oh, yeah. Didn't you notice him at breakfast?" McCormick gestured to the faucet. "You want some?" After Frank had shaken his head, Mark continued, "I think he thinks I'm gonna say something about it being his fault. Okay, sometimes I do. But not always. I guess I wish he'd get over it a little more, ya know?"

Frank put his hands in his pants pockets and leaned against the counter. "You mean you don't want him to feel guilty for sending you up? That's a change."

Mark hitched a hip onto the same counter and rubbed the back of his neck. "No, it's not that. I mean . . . those two years happened. Nothing's gonna change that and I don't want to have to tiptoe around afraid to mention anything about prison because he'll think I'm accusing him."

"You just want him to think you're accusing him when you actually do it, not all the time." Harper cocked his head at McCormick.

"Yeah. I guess. Does that make sense?"

"From you, yes. Anybody else, I'd suggest psychiatric help." Frank looked back over his shoulder at the kitchen door. "You ever think of actually talking to him about this?"

"Hell, no! We don't talk about stuff like that. Besides," Mark pushed himself off the counter, "we'd probably just end up arguing and yelling."

"Gee, that surprises me," said Harper ironically. He shook his head. "I've never known any two people who argue more than you two. You both gotta have some kind of gland or something that most other people don't."

When Judge Hardcastle entered the kitchen a few minutes later, he found the two of them snickering.

"What?" he asked.

"Judge," said Mark, "we've made a medical breakthrough here. How's your anger gland?"

"My what?"

"Your anger gland. It's right next to your spleen." McCormick nudged Frank with an elbow. "Doctor Harper here's a shoe-in for the Nobel Prize this year."

Hardcastle handed the book he was carrying to Frank. "Anger gland? Sounds like something out of the twenties. You know, when people were taking monkey gland extract to stay young."

"Ooh, that's disgusting!" McCormick was appalled.

"Well, it wasn't too good for the monkeys, either." He headed for the back door. "Come on, we'll identify some plants, look for animal tracks, then it's time for ice cream."

"Vanilla or choo-choo," Mark told Harper.

"Choo-choo?"

"Chocolate cherry chip," threw the judge over his shoulder. "We got tired of saying the whole thing and shortened it to ch-ch-ch, but then it got to be choo-choo." He strode briskly off toward the boxwood maze. "Terrific stuff. Artificial cherry flavor, lots of butterfat, big chunks of some kinda chocolate. Yum!"

"I'll have that," beamed Frank.

They found several interesting plants, ground squirrel tracks and even saw a field mouse. Frank correctly identified a red-tailed hawk and McCormick a seagull.

The ice cream was an even bigger success. Afterward, the judge explained the camp motto -- "Fiat justicia, ruat coelum" -- which, contrary to Mark's theory, did not mean Lady Justice drives a Fiat. Then it was time for target practice.

"The gun is fine, Judge. It's the guy aiming it that's a little off." McCormick demonstrated his superior marksmanship, then smirked at Hardcastle.

"There's nothing wrong with my eyesight, McCormick! I'll show ya on the second round. Twenty bucks says I beat your score!"

"You're on." Mark nodded emphatically; then it was Frank's turn.

As he took the pistol from Mark, Harper commented, "I don't know if people afflicted with enlarged mad glands oughta be handling guns."

Frank easily won the competition after that by saying the word "gland" every time the other two tried to aim.

"Okay, okay." The judge conceded with a distinct lack of grace. "But you cheated, ya know."

Harper rocked back and forth on his heels and smiled silently.

Next on the schedule was the arts and crafts hour. Hardcastle showed the others how to make a kite out of newspaper and they took turns flying it off the south lawn.

"Hey! It's five-thirty already! We gotta get the potatoes in the fire." The judge took the kite from Mark and herded his troop back to the house. "See, at a real camp, we'd roast 'em in the campfire, but the fireplace won't get that hot, so it'll take extra time for 'em to cook."

Hardcastle built the fire, while McCormick scrubbed potatoes and defrosted hotdogs in a bowl of warm water. Frank earned the first gold star awarded at camp by finding fondue forks to use with the hot dogs and marshmallows.

Dinner was eaten sitting on the floor in the den. The ash-crusted potatoes were delicious and the charred, smoky hot dogs were even better. McCormick found a baseball game on television and marshmallows were toasted to the background of the Angels against the Yankees.

"This is great," said the judge contentedly at the end of the game. "Now, I'm gonna fix us some hot chocolate and we'll tell ghost stories."

"Um, Judge," Mark looked at him hesitantly. "I think we're out of cocoa mix."

Hardcastle covered his eyes with his hand. "Didn't I tell you to get some more? Didn't I tell to make a list? What the--"

"Gland, Milt." Frank held up a finger. "Remember your gland."

"Tell you what, Judge," offered McCormick. "I'll run down to the store right now if it's that important to you. Or we could open a bottle of that brandy you like. Whattaya say?"

Hardcastle sighed. "Okay. Kids at camp don't usually have brandy, but I guess we can make an exception."

"Hey," protested Harper, "I'm not sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag, either!"

"Nah." The judge waved that off. "We had bunk beds anyway, so that's okay. You," he pointed to McCormick, "get the brandy and the glasses. And some of those cookies. It's time," he smiled, rubbing his hands together, "for some ghost stories."

"'Anna-belle, I want my liv-er back.'" Hardcastle's voice sank even lower and Mark and Frank bent closer. "And then it sounded like somebody pushed the door of her bedroom open and she thought she heard faint footsteps. Then, right next to her bed, she heard it again. 'Anna-belle, I want my liv-er back.' Then," the judge whispered, "The voice said, 'Anna-belle, I gotcha!'" and he grabbed at McCormick's ribs.

Mark yelped and Frank startled backwards. The judge roared with laughter.

"Geez, Judge," McCormick rubbed his ribcage. "Give me a break here." He looked at Frank laughing next to him and said sheepishly. "You found that gland; you give him your liver."

"Somebody else's turn now." Hardcastle poured himself another modicum of brandy and offered the bottle to Harper.

Frank poured himself another small tot and passed the bottle to McCormick who stretched to put it on the table at the end of the couch.

"Sorry, Milt. I don't know any ghost stories." Harper sniffed appreciatively at his brandy. "Fairy tales, sure, but no scary stuff. How 'bout you, Mark?"

McCormick shook his head. "Only scary stories I know really happened." He glanced at the judge and then touched Harper's arm. "Look. See? He did it again."

The judge looked confused. "What? What'd I do?"

"You looked all tense and . . . and worried, or something. You do it every time you think I'm gonna get on your case for sending me to prison." McCormick re-arranged himself so he was sitting cross-legged against the hearth. "You gotta cut that out, Judge."

"I don't know what you're going on about." Hardcastle set his brandy snifter on the floor. "I don't get worried when you talk, just bored."

"Yeah, you do. Every time I mention prison or something that happened there, you get all defensive about it, even if you don't say anything. Knock it off, willya? Not everything that happened was your fault."

"Oh, yeah? Well, that's not the song you've been singing for the last couple years."

Frank, ignored on the sidelines, took a small sip of his brandy.

"Yeah, it is. Kinda." Mark wrinkled his nose. "I mean, you did send me to San Quentin, but you're not responsible for everything bad that ever happened to me. But every time I mention prison or somebody I knew there or something that happened, you flinch. It's starting the bug the hell outta me, Judge."

"Well, I'm sorry. I'm not doing it on purpose, ya know."

"Yeah, I know." McCormick ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "But if I'm gonna blame you for something, you'll know it. Most of the time, it's just talking, so ease up, okay?"

"All right, I'll work on it." The judge shrugged. "I'll work on it. But you gotta get over me sentencing you. You know I didn't have a choice."

"Yeah, I guess. But it wasn't fair and it wasn't right and you know it." Mark leaned back against the hearth. "It just seems to me that fair and right oughta be a part of 'legal', ya know?"

"Yeah, well, the system's not perfect. I know that." Hardcastle picked up his brandy snifter and took a small sip. "We do what we can, that's all."

"I do know a ghost story!" said Frank suddenly. Ignoring the startled looks from the other two, he said, "This guy shows up at somebody's front door one night, and it's all stormy and rainy and everything. Then when the people at the house let him in he tells them his car broke down and he needs to make a phone call. So, they let him use the phone, then next thing they know, he's disappeared. And they never saw him again!"

McCormick waited a few seconds, then asked, "That's it? That's the whole story?"

"Yeah, see, they never saw him leave so they figured he was a ghost." Harper looked so pleased with himself, neither of the others had the heart to criticize.

"Well, on that note, I guess we oughta head for our bunks." Hardcastle gathered up his glass and Frank's, while McCormick picked up the detritus left after toasting marshmallows.

"They never let him outta the house, see?" Frank followed the others to the kitchen. "So they figured he was some kind of ghost. Spooky, huh?"

"Frank," Mark draped an arm across Harper's shoulders affectionately. "Stick to cop stories, okay?"

McCormick was already stirring something in a bowl when Harper made it down to the kitchen Sunday morning.

"You already up? How'd you sleep?" McCormick put down the bowl to pour Harper a cup of coffee.

"I slept terrific." Harper took the cup and asked, "Who made this?"

"I did, so it's okay."

"Where's Milt?" Frank tasted the coffee and smiled beatifically.

McCormick started a griddle heating up and peeked into the oven at the bacon sizzling and snapping there. "Probably in the attic. He said there's a book there somewhere he wants to give you."

"Good coffee, Mark. Those blueberry pancakes?"

"Yep. Special for Sunday. Can you get the butter out of the fridge for me?"

"Sure thing." Harper carried his coffee mug with him as he found the butter and took it into custody.

"Got it!" crowed the judge. He bustled into the kitchen waving a book and grinning. "I knew it was up there somewhere. Frank, here. This is for you." he handed the book to Harper and scooped up a coffee mug for himself.

"What . . . a book of ghost stories?" Harper looked at his friend quizzically.

"Yeah," Hardcastle poured himself some coffee. "It was up there with a buncha other books that I never read, so I figured you should have it. Getcha ready for the next camp, right?" He tasted his coffee and made a face. "Who made this?"

"Well, thanks, Milt. I . . . uh, really appreciate it. I guess." Frank opened the book at random and scanned a page.

McCormick flipped a pancake and muttered, "There's nothing wrong with that coffee, Hardcase. It's your taste buds that are the problem. They don't exist."

"Hmmph. Hey, what's with the bread?" The judge gestured with his mug at a baking pan covered by eight bread slices.

"Oh, somebody butter those." Mark tilted his head toward the fridge. "And don't tear the bread. That's our toast."

Frank volunteered, "I'll do it. You're gonna do 'em in the oven, right?"

"Yeah." McCormick stopped ladling batter and turned slowly to face Hardcastle. "It's something I learned in prison," he said meaningfully.

The judge shrugged. "Makes sense. Otherwise you gotta have about four hundred toasters, right?"

"Very good, Milt!" Harper saluted him with a butter-covered knife. "Very nice."

McCormick smiled wryly. "It's an improvement. But you still need to work on it."

"Oh, la-di-da." Hardcastle sipped at his coffee.

"La-di-da?" Mark looked at him incredulously. "La-di-da? What does that mean?"

"It means I'm as improved as I'm gonna get and it's time for breakfast, so you two get moving. I'll take the syrup and juice and stuff. Come on, let's go!" The judge picked up a tray of various breakfast items and headed out to the patio.

Frank took the pan of bacon out of the oven and replaced it with the bread slices. "He did make an effort, you know. He is trying."

Mark piled pancakes on a platter and handed it to Frank. "Yeah, I know." Suddenly, he grinned. "He's very trying."

Harper sighed contentedly and patted his stomach. "I can't tell you guys what a great time this has been. Really. I needed a vacation like this."

"Hey, it's been fun for us, too. Right, kiddo?" Hardcastle did a little stomach-patting of his own. "We oughta do stuff like this more often. You know, Frank, next time we go camping --"

"Hold it. Hold it." Mark finished chewing and swallowed the last piece of bacon. "'The next time we go camping'? What makes you think I'm ever going camping again?"

"Well, ya had a good time this weekend, didn't ya?"

"Yeah, but this wasn't real camping. Real camping is dirt, and bugs, and cold food, and visiting the little boy's bush."

"Camping is a great tradition! And it's good for young softies like you to get out there in the wild at times and live the way men lived for centuries!" The judge was just getting started. "Men relied on their skills back then and not on modern conveniences! They caught their own food and --"

"And got food poisoning. When they hadn't already gotten frostbite or pneumonia." McCormick reached for the last piece of toast. "Or been bit by a snake, or a bear. Or died from exposure."

"Humbug! Just because you aren't cut out for a life out there, living off the land, out in God's country--"

"Hardcastle, are you nuts? Any one of those people would've gladly traded their miserable lives for--"

"Ah-hem!" Harper said loudly. "So, I gotta thank ya both for the week-end. Claudia and I'll have you over some night real soon as a little payback, okay? She's due in at the airport at one, so I better hit the road soon."

"Hey, no need to talk about payback, Frank." The judge was still glowering at McCormick. "We were glad to have you here."

"Yeah. This is the kind of camping I can deal with." Mark begin stacking plates. "Let us know next time Claudia's away and maybe we can put up a tent on the lawn for ol' Hardcase, while we rough it in the house."

"Har, har." The judge patted the top of the table. "The kid's right, though, Frank. We'd be glad to do it again. Next time maybe we'll catch a couple of sea bass and roast 'em in the fire with some onions."

"Or maybe we could all hit the beach next time the grunion are running. You ever done that, Frank?" Mark balanced plates and mugs while he gathered up cutlery.

"Nah. I'd like to see it, though. Seems a shame to catch the little buggers when all they're doing is um, . . . reproducing. Maybe we could just watch." Harper grinned. "Although, that sounds really bad. Like being a Peeping-Tom or something."

"Hmmp!" snorted McCormick.

"Anyway, we'll do this again sometime. You let us know, Frank, and we'll plan it all out ahead of time. Okay?" Hardcastle rubbed his hands together. "We'll have some real arts and crafts and some books on plant and insect life and--"

"And Frank will have another ghost story ready."

"And you two will have your glands removed by then," Harper smiled hopefully.

"Hah!" The judge looked at McCormick, who looked back. "Never happen!" they said in unison.