"Oh, Jack, how clever you are! However did you think of that?"
"I expect it's hunger sharpening his wits."
"I say, it's all very well to say cut him up small; but he's red hot. I'm scalded horribly."
"So am I."
"Yes, and so am I, the way you make him jump about. It splashed right over here."
"Kink, come and help us hold the brisket down while we cut him up."
The result of all this confusion was the appointment of two or three new officials. Horace was made Keeper of the Tinopener, and Gregory Keeper of the Cork screw, while Jack was given the title of Preserver of Enough Oil in the Beatrice Stove, because you can do wonders with a Beatrice stove while waiting for the real fire to burn up—but only if there's oil in it.
Jack's brilliant device of slicing the brisket was successful, and by half-past seven they were seated on their rugs round the fire eating the most supreme stew of the century, as Mary Rotheram called it. They ate it in soup-plates, with a great deal of juice, into which they dropped their bread.
Suddenly old Kink, who had been eating steadily for a quarter of an hour just outside the circle, stepped up to what we may call the supper-table, with his watch in his hand.
"Miss Janet," he said, "there's only a quarter of an hour to get to Woodstock to send off the telegram."