“A boiled calf’s head, my lord.”
“A boiled calf’s head! Let it be roasted, or I’ll roast you, sir!” cried Pickersgill, in an angry tone.
“Yes, my lord; I’ll roast it.”
“And what else, sir?”
“Maintenon cutlets, my lord.”
“Maintenon cutlets! I hate them—I won’t have them, sir. Let them be dressed à l’ombre Chinoise.”
“I don’t know what that is, my lord.”
“I don’t care for that, sirrah; if you don’t find out by dinner-time, you’re food for fishes—that all; you may go.”
The cook walked off wringing his hands and his night-cap as well—for he still held it in his right hand—and disappeared down the fore-hatchway.
“I have done this to pay you a deserved compliment, ladies; you have more courage than the other sex.”