“But, George, it’s very easy to remove that; it’s been standing, that’s all; look here, just take your spoon, and skim it off; there, see how nicely it looks below. Do you know I think you’re something like that soup yourself, crusty and disagreeable on the surface, but skim that off, go deeper, and I don’t believe you’re such a bad fellow, at heart, cross as you seem!”
“Why, do I seem cross, Miss ——? I don’t mean to be so, only they never bring me what I want; and this plaguey arm keeps aching so all the time.”
“That’s just what I thought; and I am sure that if we could only get that arm better, you would be a different man. I am sure you suffer with it a great deal. Try and take this nice corn-starch, maybe you’ll like it better than the soup.”
“That! Old scorched stuff! You won’t catch me taking that in a hurry, I guess.”
“Scorched? Why, George, it isn’t scorched.”
“Not scorched, ma’am? No milk, pretended to be boiled, ever came out of that kitchen yet, that wasn’t scorched.”
“That, I happen to know, is not so; but just tell me one thing,—have you tasted it?”
“Not I, and I don’t mean to; I know it’s bad, without tasting it.”
“Thank you, George, for your gratitude. We made that this morning, with our own hands, with particular care, and put the flavoring in it you said you liked the other day; it has never been near the kitchen, and I can answer for it’s not being scorched.”
“You made it, ma’am? The ladies? Then it’s the kind I like. I beg your pardon. Billy brought it in with the dinner, and I thought he got it out of the kitchen.”