Solomon rolled up his eyes till only the whites were visible, and stood lost in wonder at the preposterous idea.
“Sich chil’en as you,” said he, loftily, “don’t ond’stan de serious business ob life. Wait till you get to be sixty, an hab cooked as many dinnas as me; den you may talk.”
“That’s hard for us,” said Tom, “if we have to become cooks and get to be sixty.”
“Course it is—an I mean it to hit hard. A dinna’s a dinna, an no mistake. Me’n’ de doctor knows dat. Why, whar’d de ’Cad’my be, ef I wasn’t to give de doctor a rail fust-rate dinna ebery day? Me’n’ de doctor keep de ’Cad’my goin. He’s de mas’r, an I’m de one dat keeps him a goin, an so we bofe ob us keep de ’Cad’my goin.”
“Solomon,” said Arthur, “you ought to be one of the teachers.”
“‘Teachas!” said Solomon; “ain’t I somefin more? What’s a teacha? I’m a pro-fessa. I’m de ’fessa ob de cool an airy ’partment.”
“Culinary,” said Bart.
“No,” said Solomon; “cool an airy. Dat’s what de doctor said. Ses he, ‘Solomon, you hab a ’portant ’sition,—you preside ober de cool an airy ‘partment.’ ‘What’s dat ar?’ ses I. ‘O,’ ses he, ‘it’s only de Injin’ fur cookin.’ An I ups an tales him ef he’d ony stay down on some broilin, hot day in Auguss in de kitchen, he’d’fess dat de Injin langidgo didn’t spress de idee, ef it called sich a oven of a place ‘cool an airy.’ Dat’s what I tale him,—an’ now, blubbed breddern, farewell!”
Saying this, Solomon took his basket, and retired from the scene.
“There’s a great lot of these cellars about,” said Arthur at last, after some silence, during which they had been sprawling on the grass beside the cellar. “There’s a great lot of them. I wonder how many there are?”