To begin with, we were served to clear soup—­“just to tickle your palates,” the Maluka announced, as Cheon in a hoarse whisper instructed him to serve “little-fellow-helps” anxious that none of the keenness should be taken from our appetites.  All served, the tureen was whisked away to ensure against further inroads, and then Cheon trundled round the table, removing the soup plates, inquiring of each guest in turn if he found the soup to his liking, and informing all that lubras were on guard in the kitchen, lest the station cats should so far forget themselves as to take an unlawful interest in our dinner.

The soup finished with, Cheon disappeared into the kitchen regions, to reappear almost immediately at the head of a procession of lubras, each of whom carried a piece de resistance to the feast:  Jimmy’s Nellie leading with the six pullets on one great dish, while Bett-Bett brought up the rear with the bread sauce.  On through a vista of boughs and mistletoe came the triumphs—­how glad we were the way had been made more worthy of their progress—­the lubras, of course, were with them, but we had eyes only for the triumphs:  Those pullets all a-row with plump brown breasts bursting with impatience to reveal the snowy flesh within; marching behind them that great sizzling “haunch” of veal, taxing Rosy’s strength to the utmost; then Mine Host’s crisply crumbed ham trudging along, and filling Bertie’s Nellie with delight, with its tightly bunched little wreath of mistletoe usurping the place of the orthodox paper frill; behind again vegetable dishes two abreast, borne by the lesser lights of the staff (lids off, of course:  none of our glory was to be hidden under covers); tailing along with the rejected and gravy boats came laden soup-plates to eke out the supply of vegetable dishes; and, last of all, that creamy delight of bread sauce, borne sedately and demurely by Bett-Bett.

As the triumphs ranged themselves into a semi-circle at the head of the table, our first impulse was to cheer, but obeying a second impulse we did something infinitely better, for, as Cheon relieved his grinning waitresses, we assured him collectively, and individually, and repeatedly that never had any one seen anything in Pine Creek so glorious as even the dimmest shadow of this feast; and as we reiterated our assurance, I doubt if any man in all the British Empire was prouder or more justified in his pride than our Cheon.  Cook and gardener forsooth!  Cheon was Cheon, and only Cheon; and there is no word in the English language to define Cheon or the position he filled, simply because there was never another like Cheon.

“Chuckie!” he sang, placing the pullets before the Maluka, and dispatching Jimmy’s Nellie for hot plates; “Roast Vealer for Mac,” and as Mac smiled and acknowledged the honour, Rosy was dismissed.  “Boilee Ham” was allotted to the Dandy; and as Bertie’s Nellie scampered away, Cheon announced other triumphs in turn and in order of merit, each of the company receiving a dish also in order of merit:  Tam-o’-Shanter contenting himself with the gravy boat, while, from the beginning, the Quiet Stockman had been honoured with the hop-beer.