“Cockroaches, by George!” he muttered. “Now where can the larder be?”
There were three doors about, and he went to the first.
“Hah!” he ejaculated, with a sniff. “Here we are; no doubt about it.”
He slipped a bolt, lifted a latch, stepped in and stepped out again quickly, then closed the door.
“Scullery!” he snarled. “Bah! what an idiot I do seem, prowling about here.”
He crossed the kitchen, slaying two more black beetles with his broad feet in transit, and opened another door. This he found led into a cool passage, along one side of which was a wirework kind of cage.
“Here we are at last,” he said; and opening the door, he found himself in presence of part of a cold leg of mutton, a well-carved piece of beef, and a cold roast pheasant.
“Now then for a plate,” he muttered; and this he secured by sliding some tartlets off one on to the shelf.
“Why, I’ve no knife,” he muttered, as he cast his eyes upon the cold roast pheasant. “I must have some bread too.”
A huge brown pan on the stone floor suggested the home of the loaves, and on raising the lid he found a half loaf, which he broke in two, secured one piece, and transferred it to the plate.