“Thankye, cook,” said Sam, smiling.
“Get out! I don’t mean you. Master. How old’s the professor?”
“Oh, he’s thirty-five,” said Sam, in rather a disappointed tone.
“And looks it,” said cook. “Well, I wish he’d go abroad again to his nasty grave-digging in the sands, and then praps master would have decent people to dine with him. Oh! There’s the front bell.”
Cook dived down into the lower regions, and Sam opened the folding inner doors to go and answer the street door bell, frowning the while.
“Wanted for some patient,” he muttered sourly. “I do wish people would have their accidents at decent times.”