“Master cook, I leave you with a pitying heart—farewell.”
“What have I done? What have I done?” cried the cook, coming hastily to his side.
“What have you done!” repeated the fortune-teller scornfully. “What have you done but throw out the refuse, the burnt scraps, the very swill of your inquisitiveness to lure from me the peculiar gems of my knowledge—my pearly prognostications!”
“But what have I done?” exclaimed the cook perplexedly.
“Can you get rice without planting? Chickens without eggs? Heat without fire? Fire without fuel? Prognostications without incentives?” demanded the fortune-teller haughtily.
“But what threatens me? What threatens me?” cried the cook impatiently.
“Master cook,” said the fortune-teller, solemnly though relentingly, “I should be lenient with you; that you do not understand the incomprehensible is not your fault. You are a cook, I alone am the scholar. Cook, I pity you; to me only is apparent the disaster over-pending. I will aid you.”
“Do, master, do.”
“Before prognosticating, cook, I must have four rice-cakes, cooked well in oil, and two pieces of pork——”
“Too much! master fortune-teller, too much!” cried the cook, backing off in amazement.