"It—will—be—the—day—of—my—life—ever—to—be—remembered—"
Potato Masher ran his words together clumsily—"But I should be very much obliged to you if you would first wash my face."
"Why, certainly," said Mary Frances. "I didn't like to suggest it."
"Thank you kindly, Miss. 'Tis a pleasure to serve you," said the little fellow, as he perched himself on the sugar box, when Mary Frances brought him back to the table.
"All ready?" asked the little girl.
"Class proceed!" said Potato Masher, with a school teacher air.
Only twice did he interrupt her as she followed every direction given in the recipes: once, to remind her of the potatoes in the oven; and again, to tell her to pour the soup very slowly, lest she burn herself.
"It's mag-nif-i-cent!—this Potato Lunch," said he, as Mary Frances carried the last smoking dish to the dining table. "'Tis a proud day for the 'Assistant Chef'—meaning myself."