I ran to the window now, and looked down to see the cook’s red face gazing up at us.
“Eh? what say?” said Mercer, leaning out.
“Hush! be quiet. All at breakfast. Got any string?”
“Yes. Oh, I know,” cried Mercer joyfully, and he ran to his box and from the bottom dragged out a stick of kite string, whose end he rapidly lowered down to where cook stood, holding something under her apron.
This proved to be a little basket with a cross handle when she whisked her apron off, and, quickly tying the end of the string to it, she stood watching till the basket had reached our hands, and then hurried away round the end of the house.
“Oh, isn’t she a good one!” cried Mercer, tearing open the lid, after snapping the string and pitching the ball quickly into the box. “Look here; four eggs, bread and butter—lots, and a bottle of milk—no,” he continued, taking out the cork and smelling, “it’s coffee. Hooray!”
“What’s that in the bit of curl paper?” and I pointed to something twisted up.
“Salt,” cried Mercer, “for the eggs. Come on, eat as fast as you can.”
I took a piece of bread and butter, and he another, eating away as he poured out two mugfuls of what proved to be delicious coffee.
“Who says we haven’t got any friends?” cried Mercer, with his mouth full. “What lots of butter. ’Tis good. I say, wonder what old Rebble would say if he knew! Have an egg.”