He then opened the packet of arrowroot and poured it into a white pudding-basin. At the point where Mrs. Hearty was to have indicated the quantity of arrowroot to be used, she had been more than usually short of breath, with the result that Bindle did not catch the "two-tablespoonfuls" she had mentioned.
He then turned to the stove to watch the milk, forgetting that Mrs. Hearty had warned him to mix the arrowroot into a thin paste with cold milk before pouring on to it the hot.
As the milk manifested no particular excitement, Bindle drew from his pocket the evening paper which, up to now, he had forgotten. He promptly became absorbed in a story of the finding at Enfield of a girl's body bearing evidences of foul play.
He was roused from his absorption by a violent hiss from the stove and, a moment later, he was holding aloft the saucepan, from which a Niagara of white foam streamed over the sides on to the angry stove beneath.
"Wot a stink," he muttered, as he stepped back and turned towards the kitchen table. "Only jest in time, though," he added as, with spoon in one hand, he proceeded to pour the boiling milk on to the arrowroot, assiduously stirring the while.
"Well, I'm blowed," he muttered as, at the end of some five minutes, he stood regarding a peculiarly stodgy mass composed of a glutinous substance in which were white bubbles containing a fine powder.
For several minutes he stood regarding it doubtfully, and then, with the air of a man who desires to make assurance doubly sure, he spooned the mass out on to a plate and once more stood regarding it.
"Looks as if it wants a few currants," he murmured dubiously, as he lifted the plate from the table, preparatory to taking it up to Mrs. Bindle.
"I brought you somethink to eat, Lizzie," he announced, as he closed the door behind him.
Mrs. Bindle shook her head, then opening her eyes, fixed them upon the strange viscid mass that Bindle extended to her.