“Oh, I say!” muttered Rodd.
“Better cook eight or ten for my nephew,” cried the doctor dryly. “He’ll eat like a young wolf.”
“What a shame!” muttered Rodd. “I’ll serve him out for this.”
“Fried, of course, sir?” came from the kitchen.
“Murder, woman, no!” roared Uncle Paul. “Fry! That is wild west-country ignorance, madam! Are you not aware, madam, that the action of boiling fat upon albumen is to produce a coagulate leathery mass of tough indigestible matter inimical to the tender sensitive lining of the most important organ of the human frame, lying as it does without assimilation or absorption upon the epigastric region, and producing an irritation that may require medical treatment to allay?”
“Dear, dear, dear, dear me, no, sir! Really, you quite fluster me with all those long words. Who ever heard that fried ham and eggs were bad for anybody?”
“Then I tell you now, madam,” shouted the doctor, “that—”
“Don’t you take any notice, Mrs Champernowne,” shouted Rodd. “It’s only uncle’s fun.”
“Wuff!” went Uncle Paul, with a snap like that of an angry dog. “Wuff!”
“Fried, please, Mrs Champernowne; four for uncle and three for me.”