“Who can fry fish?” cried Tinfoil. “Here are two pairs of soles and some eels. Where’s Caliban?”
“Here I am, sir,” replied the man on his knees, blowing up a fire which he had kindled. “I have got the soup to mind.”
“Where’s Stephano?”
“Cooling the wine, sir.”
“Who, then, can fry fish, I ask?”
“I can, sir,” replied Tom; “but not without butter.”
“Butter shalt thou have, thou disturber of the element. Have we not Hiren here?”
“I wasn’t hired as a cook, at all events,” replied Tom: “but I’m rather a dab at it.”
“Then shalt thou have the place,” replied the actor.
“With all my heart and soul,” cried Tom, taking out his knife, and commencing the necessary operation of skinning the fish.