“Umph!” grunted Uncle Paul, taking up a very thin, old, much-worn silver table-spoon and looking at it with the eye of a connoisseur. “H’m! Ha! Queen Anne.”
“She’s dead, uncle,” said the boy.
“Well, I know that, don’t I?” growled Uncle Paul, as he tilted the empty dish, and carefully scraped all the golden brown fat and gravy to one side, getting together sufficient to nearly fill the spoon, and then making as if to put it upon his own plate, but with a quick gesture dabbing it down upon Rodd’s.
“Fair play, uncle!” shouted the boy.
“Bah!” grunted the doctor. “Cut me a thin slice of bread, all crumb, Pickle. Thunder and lightning! I have got the best share, after all;” and then, with his face puckered up into a pleasant smile, he inserted a fork into the newly-cut slice of home-made bread, and began passing it round and round the dish until it had imbibed the remains of the liquid ham and the golden new-laid eggs, when he deposited it upon his own plate with a triumphant smile which seemed to Rodd to make him look five-and-twenty years younger.
“Shall I fill another cup of tea for you, uncle?” cried Rodd; and by the way, they were breakfast cups.
“No, no, Pickle; I—I—er—well, say half.”
At that moment the door was opened, and, looking hot and out of breath, their landlady entered.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting for anything, gentlemen,” she cried, giving the table a comprehensive glance. “I am so sorry. I will cook another rasher or two directly.”
“Madam, no,” said Uncle Paul didactically. “What does the great classic author say?”