"Did you look in all the dresser drawers, my lord?"
"No. That could be done. But the point is, I did notice somethin'. What did I notice? That's the point. Never mind. On with the dance—let joy be unconfined! Knife-board. Knife-powder. Kitchen table. Did you speak?"
"No," said Bunter, who had moved from his attitude of wooden deference.
"Table stirs a chord. Very good. On table. Choppin'-board. Remains of ham and herb stuffin'. Packet of suet. Another sieve. Several plates. Butter in a glass dish. Bowl of drippin'——"
"Ah!"
"Drippin'——! Yes, there was——"
"Something unsatisfactory, my lord——"
"About the drippin'! Oh, my head! What's that they say in Dear Brutus, Bunter? 'Hold on to the workbox.' That's right. Hold on to the drippin'. Beastly slimy stuff to hold on to——Wait!"
There was a pause.
"When I was a kid," said Wimsey, "I used to love to go down into the kitchen and talk to old cookie. Good old soul she was, too. I can see her now, gettin' chicken ready, with me danglin' my legs on the table. She used to pluck an' draw 'em herself. I revelled in it. Little beasts boys are, ain't they, Bunter? Pluck it, draw it, wash it, stuff it, tuck its little tail through its little what-you-may-call-it, truss it, grease the dish——Bunter?"