Andy took no part in the conversation. He was too much engaged in carving, and being at no time an expert, he failed to find the joints of the fowls and cut slices from various parts. It required a silent concentration of mind and muscle to sever the legs, of which in cooler moments he would have been incapable.
At last, however, everybody was served, and he sat down, bathed in perspiration, to talk about the weather. He had already done so twice over, but he could think of nothing else. He forgot to give himself any chicken, and ate potatoes agitatedly with a knife and fork.
“One wonders if this weather can possibly last,” he said, unconsciously grasping at the manner of the senior curate in his emergency. “It will be a providence for the farmers if it continues to——”
His voice slackened—stopped. He glanced from one guest to the other. No one had even touched their chicken.
“I hope——” he began.
Then Mrs. Stamford, as it were, stepped forward.
“We’re so very sorry. No doubt your cook, being from the town, is accustomed to have the fowls ready prepared.” She paused.
“I got these from Mrs. Werrit. Usually we have them from Mrs. Thorpe,” said Andy hopelessly.
“In summer,” continued Mrs. Stamford, “it is usual about here to send the poultry home not drawn—it keeps better so.”
“Not drawn,” echoed Andy vaguely, all at sea.