“I wish I saw the application,” answers
Barbara, still rocking and sighing.
“Mind that you set a stool for his gouty foot,”
says Algy, feeling for his faint mustache, “and
run and search for his spectacle-case, when he has
mislaid it.”
“Seriously,” say I, “what a grand
thing it would be for the family if he were to adopt
you, Barbara!”
“Or me,” suggests the Brat, standing before
the fire with his coat-tails under his arm. “Why
not me? My manners to the aged are always
considered particularly happy.”
“Here he is!” cries Tou Tou from the window,
whither she has retired, and now stands, like a heron,
on one leg, leaning her elbow on the sill. “Here
is the dog-cart turning the corner!”
We all make a rush to the casement.
“Yes, there he is! sure enough! our future benefactor!”
says Algy, looking over the rest of our heads, and
making a counterfeit greeting.— “Welcome,
welcome, good old man!”
“And father, all affability, pointing out the
house,” supplements Bobby.
We laugh grimly.
“But who is it he has in the fly?” say
I, as the second vehicle follows the first. “His
harem, I suppose! half a dozen old Wampoos.”
“His valet, to be sure,” replies the Brat,
chidingly, “with his stays, and his evening
wig, and the calves of his legs.”
The wind is even colder than it was, stronger and
more withering now that the sun’s faint warmth
is withdrawn, and that the small and chilly stars
possess the sky. Nevertheless, both the school-room
windows are open. We are all huddled shivering
round the hearth, yet no one talks of closing them.
The fact is, that amateur cooking, though a graceful
accomplishment, has its penalties, and that at the
present moment the smell of broiled bones and fried
potatoes that fills our place of learning is something
appalling. Why may not it penetrate beneath the
swing-door, through the passages, and reach the drawing-room?
Such a thing has happened once or twice before.
At the bare thought we all quake. I am in the
pleasant situation, just at present, of owning a chilled
body and a blazing face.
Chiefest among the cooks have I been, and now I am
sitting trying to fan my red cheeks and redder nose,
with the back of an old atlas, gutted in some ancient
broil, trying, in deference to Sir Roger, to cool down
my appearance a little against prayer-time. Alas!
that epoch is nearer than I think. Ting! tang!
the loud bell is ringing through the house. My
hair is loosened and tumbled with stooping over the
fire, and I have burnt a hole right in the fore front
of my gown, by letting a hot cinder fall from the
grate upon it. There is, however, now no time
to repair these dilapidations. We issue from
our lair, and en route meet the long string
of servants filing from their distant regions.
How is it that the cook’s face is so much, much
