he merely appraised other portions of the lady’s anatomy. Once I remember the cook was ill; Brown did his work. He was a good lad—he always did every one else’s work. We were hungry—very hungry—and he, stout fellow, was preparing our repast.
“Homlette, sir,” he had murmured confidentially, “peas and taters, and fresh meat!” and with his honest face shining with eagerness to prepare this Epicurean banquet he had gone about his business. The shadows lengthened—an appetising smell greeted our nostrils; we forgave him his untoward references to his adored one’s “faice.” Then it happened.
“What a neye, what a neye, what a norrible heye, lumme”—there was a fearful pause and a sizzling noise—“lumme, the whole perishing homlette’s in the fire.” It was; and in a gallant attempt at rescue he upset the meat in an adjacent stagnant pool. The only thing we got were the peas, and they rattled on the tin plates like shrapnel bullets.
However, as I’ve said several times, he was an admirable lad, and a love of animals atoned for a multitude of sins. At least every one thought so, until he adopted a
