CHAPTER XII.—AN EXCITING ADVENTURE.
Though Bertie looked cheerful enough as he walked with Uncle Clair and Eddie to the railway station on Monday morning, he could not help feeling very sorry at having to leave Brighton. The weather was so glorious, the sea all rippling and dancing in the morning sunshine, the streets so full of merry pleasure-seekers, that going back to the office in Mincing Lane was dull enough. They Were very sorry to lose him, too: there could be no mistake about that; ever since he had so promptly declined for them all Mr. Murray's invitation, they felt a sort of respectful admiration for him, though from very different reasons. Uncle Clair thought it was very sensible to return to town when his Uncle Gregory so clearly wished it; Eddie and Agnes thought it was quite splendid of him to have saved them from becoming more intimately acquainted with their cousins; while the latter, in their lofty, patronising way, considered Bertie was not such a bad sort of fellow, and they would be kinder to him when they got back home, but they certainly did not want to have to introduce him to their Eton friends, Lionel and Arthur Delamere, whom Mr. Murray had given them leave to invite. They would be sure to ask where Eddie and Bertie went to school, and so, of course, hear all about the office; besides, Eddie looked so proud and reserved, he would hardly prove an agreeable companion, nor was Mr. Clair regarded very favourably. Mr. Murray was more annoyed by the failure of his plan than any one else, and yet he felt in a way that Bertie was quite right, for his Uncle Gregory would not easily have forgiven him had he acted differently.
Mr. Gregory was not at the station when they arrived, but just as the train was starting he came up, and after one quick glance up and down the platform, entered a carriage without having recognised Uncle Clair or Eddie, and Bertie found himself in a compartment with several strange gentlemen, who each had a newspaper that he turned over eagerly, and Bertie could not help wishing that he too had something to read, though I think he would have preferred either Don Quixote or Robinson Crusoe. Then he fell to wondering what Eddie and Agnes were doing: whether they were on the beach reading or sketching, and thinking how nice it would be to meet them at the station on next Saturday afternoon, when they purposed returning home, have the cabs all engaged, and then go back with them to Fitzroy Square. After a time his head fell back into the corner, and from thinking, Bertie fell into a pleasant dream, from which he was aroused by a gentle touch. A gentleman was searching for a small bag, which had slipped behind Bertie.
"Sorry to trouble you; thanks," he said, when he had found it. Then leaning forward towards the gentleman opposite, he took out a packet of papers neatly tied up. "It's very provoking," he said. "I came down here on Saturday to get the governor's signature, and could not find trace or tidings of him. He left an hour before I arrived, and if I don't find him somewhere in town to-day, it will be a serious loss to our firm."
"You can afford it," the gentleman said, smiling.
"Yes; but our manager will be none the less angry about it. However, I can't help it;" and then they talked about the money market and other matters, till Bertie fell asleep again, and did not awake till they reached London Bridge. There Mr. Gregory saw him, and gave him a seat in his hansom, and the last thing Bertie saw as he left the platform was the gentleman with his little black bag in his hand, hurrying along as if for his life.
Bertie was very busy that morning: there were a great many letters to be addressed and notices copied out; his uncle seemed hasty and impatient, spoke harshly, and once or twice said he believed Bertie had left his brains in Brighton. Then the office was very stuffy and gloomy, for though the day was bright enough outside, very little sunshine found its way through the dusty ground glass windows of the office in Mincing Lane. Never in his life had Bertie so longed for luncheon-time; his head ached, and more than once a great lump seemed to grow suddenly in his throat as he thought of his past holidays; but the City at luncheon-time is not the best possible place for dreaming or moping, and before he had gone a hundred yards from the office door he came into violent collision with a gentleman running down the steps of another office, who, without pausing even to apologise, sprang into a cab that was waiting, without observing that he had dropped a small leather bag he held in his hand. Bertie, whose hat had been knocked off in the encounter, stooped to pick it up, picked up the bag at the same time, and glanced at the hansom fast disappearing amongst the crowd of others. It was no use to shout, much less to run, but having begun to learn to think, he acted with a good deal of decision. Hailing another cab that chanced to be near, he bade the driver follow the one that had just started, as the gentleman had dropped something, and the cabby, who had witnessed the whole transaction, nodded and drove on; but a few minutes had been lost; the first vehicle was a private one, with a good horse, Bertie's was a worn-out old creature, that ought not to have been in harness at all, so that it was just as much as the driver could do to keep it in sight. In the City, owing to several blocks, they almost lost it; and when they got into more fashionable regions amongst the less-frequented streets and quiet squares of the West End, matters were still worse, but at length, turning suddenly round a corner, they saw the identical cab standing before a large, gloomy-looking house, and its occupant speaking hurriedly to another gentleman on the steps. Bertie sprang out and ran up, flushed, breathless, and excited.
"If you please, sir, you dropped this in Mincing Lane," he said, "and I followed you as quickly as ever I could."
One of the gentlemen uttered a little cry of dismay, and almost staggered against the railing for support. In his hurry and confusion, his eagerness to deliver a pressing message, and get the documents back to the City, he had not discovered their loss at all. The other gentleman caught the boy by the arm, and then uttered an exclamation of still greater astonishment. "Oh! Bertie Rivers, I see. So you found my clerk's bag?"
"Yes, sir," Bertie replied, very much surprised to discover in the same moment that one speaker was Mr. Murray, the other the gentleman who had come up in the train with him that morning, the bag the very one that had excited his curiosity on two previous occasions, and caused him to be disturbed from his pleasant dream.
"How did you know the person it belonged to? Why did you come here with it?" Mr. Murray asked, after a keen, searching glance at Bertie's face. He was a shrewd, suspicious old gentleman, who had been deceived many times in his life, much imposed upon, and therefore very cautious of whom he trusted. Still, Bertie Rivers' face was truthful and frank enough to satisfy anybody as he replied that he did not know in the least to whom the bag belonged; "but I was going to my luncheon, sir, and I ran against this gentleman; my hat got knocked off, and when I stooped to pick it up I saw the bag. I felt sure the gentleman dropped it, and I called; but he had driven off, so I just hailed another hansom, and told the driver to follow the one just started. He said, 'I saw it all,' and drove as quick as he could, and—that's all, sir."
"No, no, there's something more; you must tell me all about it presently," and Mr. Murray pushed Bertie before him into a magnificent library. "You sit there for ten minutes, while I see to this business," and he turned to the clerk, who had followed him. "Give me the papers, and while I sign them thank that lad. He has done you a good turn to-day."
The clerk thanked Bertie cordially, and at length Mr. Murray stood up, thrust the papers into the bag, and with a curious glance, which seemed to say plainly, "I'll see you later on about this," dismissed the man by a wave of his hand, then he turned to Bertie, and caught him glancing at the clock with much uneasiness.
"Now then, boy, you have done me a very great service to-day; what can I do for you in return?"
Bertie flushed, hung his head, and then looked up resolutely. "If you would be so kind as to pay the cabman," he stammered. "I forgot when I engaged him that I had spent nearly all my pocket-money, and it takes three days to get any from the savings' bank, and I—I couldn't ask Uncle Gregory."
"Of course not; besides, the cab came here on my business: it's my duty to pay him, else I would not do it. Here, run out and give him this," and Mr. Murray handed him a sovereign; "then come back to me."
"Please, sir, will you excuse me?" Bertie said earnestly. "I am so afraid to be late."
"It can't be helped this time, Bertie. You must have something to eat, and I'm going into the City presently, and will call and explain matters to your uncle; but you must go in first and tell your own story, because I don't want to deprive you of his praise when he hears what a shrewd, honest boy you've been. Come on, and have luncheon with me, and tell me why you said you preferred returning to the office to going for a week's cruise in my yacht. I am really very anxious, Bertie Rivers, to know what good reason you could have had for that very strange decision of yours. Were you afraid of offending your Uncle Gregory?"
(To be continued.)
ALL ABOUT SNAILS.
German country children have a quaint little rhyme to ask the snail to put out his horns. Translated, its meaning is like this:—
"Snail, snail, your four horns show,
Show me the four, and don't say 'No,'
Or I shall pitch you into the ditch,
And the crows that come to the ditch to sup,
Will gobble you up, gobble you up!"
In some parts of the south of England the children invite the snail out still less politely. They chant over and over:—
"Snail, snail, come out of your hole,
Or else I'll beat you as black as a coal!"
This sounds very cruel, but they can't mean it, can they? Near Exeter the country children have a more fanciful rhyme:—
"Snail, snail, shove out your horns,
Father and mother are dead,
Brother and sister are in the back-yard,
Begging for barley-bread."
The snail's parents and relations are meant, not their own. This reminds us of what the little brown Italian children say in Naples; they sing to the snail to look out and show his horns, as the snail-mamma is laughing at him because she has now a better little snail at home. In some parts of the south of Ireland there is a prettier rhyme than any of these, and it asks him to come out to see a great visitor:—
"Shell-a-muddy, shell-a-muddy,
Put out your horns,
For the king's daughter is coming to town,
In a red petticoat and a green gown!"
The children who sing these rhymes think that if only they sing them often enough, the horns will be put out at last. They have picked up the snail, and he has tucked himself into his shell. After awhile, when his first fright has worn off, perhaps he puts out his head just to see where he is, or to look if the big live thing that startled him has gone away.
The four snails in the picture have come out for a walk by the light of the moon; they like to go out on fine dry nights, because when the weather is dry they have been all day hidden in some corner of a lane or garden. On wet days in summer weather they go out at all hours, always carrying their little shell-houses on their backs, and ready at a moment's notice to tuck themselves in, horns and all. One notices the two long horns most, but they have another pair of very small ones as well. In winter they sleep all the time in some crevice of an old garden wall, or in a little hole in the ground covered with moss and leaves.
We often hear of "fattening-up" geese and turkeys, but how funny it sounds to talk of fattening up a snail. The Romans, long, long ago, kept snails in special gardens and fattened them on meal and boiled wine, and ate them at their feasts. There are still snail-gardens in many places on the Continent, but they are not fed on boiled wine now. In England, as late as James the First's time, they were made into a favourite dish with sauce and spices. The Italian peasants think large brown snails a great treat; and the gipsies in many places make dinners and suppers of the common little "shell-a-muddies." A larger kind are sold still at Covent Garden Market, London, to be taken as a cure by people who are ill.
LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.—X.
By Phillis Browne, Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can Do," &c.
Apple fritters to-day," said Margaret.
"Yes, apple fritters to-day," replied Mary. "Won't it be delightful, miss?"
"Let me see," said Mrs. Herbert, coming into the room at the moment, "we are going to make something special to-day. Whatever is it?"
"Apple fritters!" said both the children in one breath.
"Oh yes, to be sure! It is apple fritters. You would not like to broil a mutton chop instead, would you, Margaret?"
"Certainly not, mother!"
"Then we must take broiling for our next lesson. It will be all the better, for I see cook has put the apples and the materials for the batter ready for us. So let us set to work."
"But, mother, what do you think?" said Margaret, as she came up to the table and looked round, "cook has made the batter for us; and we wanted to make it ourselves. Is it not a pity?"
"Cook has partly made it, dear, because I told her to do so. Batter is best when mixed some time before it is wanted. The whites of eggs, however, are not put in until a few minutes before the batter is used; so that part of making the batter has been left for you."
"It does not signify very much," said Mary; "we learnt how to make batter when we made pancakes."
"This batter is not made in the same way, though, as pancake-batter," said Mrs. Herbert. "This is frying-batter, and it is mixed differently. I will tell you how to mix it, and you must try to remember."
"We will write it down," said Margaret. "I have written down all the recipes you have given us, so far, in a copy-book, and I am going to keep them as long as I live."
"A very good plan. Listen then. Put a quarter of a pound of flour, with a pinch of salt, into a bowl, pour in two table-spoonfuls of salad-oil, stir a little of the flour with this, and add a gill (which is a quarter of a pint, you know) of tepid water. Beat the batter till it is quite smooth and no lumps remain. Thus much cook has done for us."
"Tepid water is water that is not hot enough to burn, is it not, ma'am?" said Mary, inquiringly.
"That is not at all a safe rule to lay down. I should say, tepid water is made by mixing two parts of cold with one part boiling water."
"Shall I strain off and beat the whites of the eggs, mother?" said Margaret; "I can do that, you know."
"Yes, dear. You will need the whites of two eggs, and they must be beaten till very stiff. When they are ready you mix them lightly into the batter. Meantime Mary can peel the apples. Peel the skin off very thinly, Mary, and stamp out the core with the little instrument called the apple-corer. You see, it does the business very quickly. If we had no apple-corer, we should either have to scoop out the core with the point of a knife, when we should be in danger of cutting our fingers, or we should have to take it from the slices separately. These apples must be cut in slices across the core, you understand, before we can make the fritters."
"How thick must the slices be, please, ma'am?" said Mary.
"Not thick at all. They must be as thin as you can cut them to keep them whole. You will do very well if you can cut them all evenly, thin as a shilling. Do you see that we wish to cook the apple inside, as well as the batter outside it, and the thinner it is the more quickly it will cook?"
Very busily Mary worked, but Margaret had beaten her egg-whites, and stirred them in, long before she had finished.
"May I help Mary, mother?" then said Margaret, who did not enjoy waiting.
"Yes, dear; you can prepare one apple, if you like. Before doing so, however, put the fat on the fire. It was strained into a fresh saucepan to be ready for us. It will take a little time to boil; but we must use it the moment it boils. Remember that every minute, I might say every second, that fat remains on the fire after it boils, and without being used, it is spoiling."
"You will have to be quick, mother, if you are going to use the fat as soon as it boils;" said Margaret after a minute or two. "It is boiling already; see, it is bubbling all over. What shall I do? Shall I take it off the fire?"
"It does not boil yet, dear; wait till it boils."
"But, mother, look. It is bubbling fast. Oh, no, it is not; it is quieting down. How very strange! and I had not lifted it from the fire."
"This is exactly what I wanted you to find out. Water, when it boils, bubbles and spirts; fat is still when it boils. If you watch this fat, it will become quite still."
"How shall we know, then, when it boils?"
"By watching it carefully. When you see a thin blue fume rising from it, it is hot enough. That is the sign. If you do not look closely it may escape your notice, for it is only a thin fume you want, not a thick smoke. If we were to let the fat remain till it smoked it would be spoilt."
"Oh dear, how careful we have to be!" said Margaret.
"The slices of apple are quite ready, ma'am," said Mary.
"And the batter is quite ready," said Margaret.
"I see too, that cook has put a dish with kitchen paper on it for us to put the fritters on as they are fried. And there is the fume. Do you see it, children?"
"No, I see nothing," said Margaret.
"And I see nothing," said Mary.
"Look closely. Hold this piece of black paper behind, that will help you. Be quick, we must not let the fat burn."
"Oh yes, I think I see something," said Margaret, who seemed rather bewildered. "But I thought——"
"Think and work together, dear; we have no time to lose. Take a slice of apple on a skewer, dip it in the batter, and when it is completely covered, lift it up and drop it in the fat. Now do the same to another, and another. You can fry two or three at once if only you are careful that the fritters do not touch. As the batter blows out and forms fritters, turn them over that they may be equally coloured on both sides. They must be very pale brown, or rather fawn-coloured; on no account let them get very brown."
"How shall we get them out?" said Margaret.
"Lift them by the skewer, and put them straight away on the paper to drain. You should put everything on kitchen paper after frying before you dish it; do not let things lie one on top of another, or they will be spoilt."
"There, all the first ones are out," said Mary. "Shall we put some more slices of apple in?"
"Wait a moment. You see there are two or three little specks of batter which have got away all by themselves in the fat. We must take them out at once with the skimmer, or they will burn and spoil the colour of our fat. Also we must let the fat get hot again, watching for the fume between each relay, because the cold batter and the cold apple will make our fat a little cool. It will heat in a moment or two, but we must have it properly hot, or the fritters will be greasy."
"I should have thought they would have been greasy with being put into such a quantity of fat," said Margaret.
"No fear of that, if only the fat is hot enough. If the fat is not hot, they will be most unpleasant; but if the fat is hot the heat will cook the outside so quickly that the grease cannot get in, while that which is on the surface will dry instantly."
"How quickly the fritters are cooked!" said Mary. "I never saw anything like it."
"I thing frying fritters is even more interesting than frying pancakes," said Margaret.
"How pretty the fritters look, and how crisp they feel when we take them out!" said Mary.
"They will not remain crisp very long, though, not more than five minutes," said Mrs. Herbert. "We must send them in to grandmamma as quickly as possible, if we wish her to have them in perfection. That is why we make so much haste in frying, for fritters have lost their excellence when they have lost their crispness."
"I suppose when we have dried them on the kitchen paper we had better dish them and put them in the oven to keep hot, ma'am."
"No, put them in the screen; they will keep crisper than in the oven. We shall not need to put them anywhere for more than a minute, however, for they are just done. Dish them in a circle, sift a little white sugar on, and they are ready."
"I have enjoyed making apple fritters very much," said Margaret.
"That is well. The best of it is that when you have learnt to make apple fritters you can make fritters of any kind of fruit, for all the fruit fritters are made in the same way. Some fruits are dipped in sugar before being put in the batter, and it needs practice to keep the batter over them. Sometimes fruit is soaked in syrup. Then it must be dried before being dipped in the batter."
"I suppose it would not do to fry meat in batter, would it?" said Mary.
"Certainly it would. You can try it, if you like, one day."
"I should like, very much."
"Very well. Never do anything of this sort unless I am with you though, dear, for fear you should burn yourself. Hot water is very hot, and a little spilt on your hand would pain you very much, but hot fat would pain you much more, and when it is used, a little carelessness might end in a serious accident. Therefore I think small cooks like you ought not to practise frying unless an older person is present to see that everything is safe."
Cook passed through the kitchen as this was said, and the remark evidently met with her approval.
(To be continued.)