Long before the last waitress was relieved, the carvers were at work, and the company was bubbling over with merriment.  “Have some veal, chaps?” the Sanguine Scot said, opening the ball by sticking a carving fork into the great joint, and waving the knife in a general way round the company; then as the gravy sizzed out in a steaming gurgle he added invitingly:  “Come on, chaps!  This is veal prime stuff!  None of your staggering Bob tack”; and the Maluka and the Dandy bidding against him, to Cheon’s delight, every one “came on” for some of everything; for veal and ham and chicken and several vegetables and sauces blend wonderfully together when a Cheon’s hand has been at the helm.

The higher the plates were piled the more infectious Cheon’s chuckle became, until nothing short of a national calamity could have checked our flow of spirits.  Mishaps only added to our enjoyment, and when a bottle of hop-beer went off unexpectedly as the Quiet Stockman was preparing to open it, and he, with the best intentions in the world, planted his thumb over the mouth of the bottle, and directed two frothing streams over himself and the company in general, the delight of every one was unbounded—­a delight intensified a hundredfold by Cheon, who, with his last doubt removed, danced and gurgled in the background, chuckling in an ecstasy of joy:  “My word, missus!  That one beer plenty jump up!” As there were no carpets to spoil, and every one’s clothes had been washed again and again, no one’s temper was spoiled, and a clean towel quickly repairing all damages, our only regret was that a bottle of beer had been lost.

But the plum-pudding was yet to come, and only Cheon was worthy to carry it to the feast; and as he came through the leafy way, bearing the huge mottled ball, as big as a bullock’s head—­all ablaze with spirits and dancing light and crowned with mistletoe—­it would have been difficult to say which looked most pleased with itself, Cheon or the pudding; for each seemed wreathed in triumphant smiles.

We held our breaths in astonishment, each feeling like the entire Cratchit family rolled into one, and by the time we had recovered speech, Cheon was soberly carrying one third of the pudding to the missus.  The Maluka had put it aside on a plate to simplify the serving of the pudding, and Cheon, sure that the Maluka could mean such a goodly slice for no one but the missus, had carried it off.

There were to be no “little-fellow helps” this time.  Cheon saw to that, returning the goodly slice to the Maluka under protest, and urging all to return again and again for more.  How he chuckled as we hunted for the “luck” and the “wealth,” like a parcel of children, passing round bushman jokes as we hunted.

“Too much country to work,” said one of the Macs, when after a second helping they were both still “missing.”  “Covered their tracks all right,” said another.  The Quiet Stockman “reckoned they were bushed all right.”  “Going in a circle,” the sick Mac suggested, and then a shout went up as the Dandy found the “luck” in his last mouthful.