Sam Jenkles went and sat down in his chair with an air of relief and looked at his wife.
Mrs Jenkles looked at Sam, as if the same idea was in both hearts. Then she jumped up suddenly.
“Oh, Sam, the potatoes are spoiling!”
They were, but they were not spoilt; and Sam Jenkles made a very hearty meal, washing it down with the pint of beer which he termed his allowance.
“Ah!” he said, speaking like a man with a load off his mind, “this here’s a luxury as the swells never gets—a regular good, hot, mealy tater, fresh from the fire. It’s a wonderful arrangement of nature that about taters.”
“Why?” said Mrs Jenkles, as she emptied the brown coat of another potato on her husband’s plate. “What do you mean?”
“Why, the way in which roast potatoes and beer goes together. Six mouthfuls of tater, and then a drink of beer to get rid of the dryness.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so fond of talking about beer, Sam,” said Mrs Jenkles.
“All right, my dear,” said Sam; and he finished his supper, retook his place by the fireside, filled his pipe, glanced at the Dutch clock swinging its pendulum to and fro; and then, as he lit the tobacco—“Ah! this is cheery. Glad I aint on the night shift.”
Mrs Jenkles was very quiet as she bustled about and cleared the table, before once more taking her place on the other side of the fire.