By nine o’clock Mac and Tam had arrived, and after everything had been sufficiently admired, we trooped in a body to the kitchen, obedient to a call from Cheon.
Triumph after triumph was displayed, and after listening gravely and graciously to our assurances that already everything was “more better’n Pine Creek last year,” Cheon allowed us a glimpse of the pudding through a cloud of steam, the company standing reverently around the fire trench in a circle, as it bent over the bubbling boiler; then scuttling away before us like an old hen with a following of chickens, he led the way to the water-bags, and asked our opinion on the hop-beer: “You think him jump-up longa dinner time? Eh, boss?” he said anxiously, as the Măluka, holding a bottle between us and the light, examined it critically. “Me make him three o’clock longa night-time.”
It looked remarkably still and tranquil, but we hoped for the best, and half an hour later were back at the water-bags, called thither to decide whether certain little globules were sediment or air-bubbles. Being sanguine, we decided in favour of bubbles, and in another half-hour were called back again to the bags to see that the bubbles were bubbles indeed, having dropped in at the kitchens on our way to give an opinion on veal stuffing and bread sauce; and within another half-hour were peering into the oven to inspect further triumphs of cooking.
Altogether the morning passed quickly and merrily, any time Cheon left us being spent in making our personal appearance worthy of the feast.
Scissors and hand-glasses were borrowed, and hair cut, and chins shaved, until we feared our Christmas guests would look like convicts. Then the Dandy producing blacking brushes, boots that had never seen blacking before, shone like ebony. After that a mighty washing of hands took place, to remove the blacking stain; and then the Quarters settled down to a general “titivation,” Tam “cleaning his nails for Christmas,” amid great applause.
By eleven o’clock the Dandy was immaculate, the guests satisfied that they “weren’t too dusty,” while the Măluka, in spotless white relieved with a silk cummerbund and tie, bid fair to outdo the Dandy. Even the Quiet Stockman had succeeded in making a soft white shirt “look as though it had been ironed once.” And then every lubra being radiant with soap, new dresses, and ribbons, the missus, determined not be to outdone in the matter of Christmas finery, burrowed into trunks and boxes, and appeared in cream washing silk, lace fichu, ribbons, rings, and frivolities—finery, by the way, packed down south for that “commodious station home.”
Cheon was enraptured with the appearance of his company, and worked, and slaved, and chuckled in the kitchen as only Cheon could, until at last the critical moment had arrived. Dinner was ready, but an unforeseen difficulty had presented itself. How was it to be announced, Cheon queried, having called the missus to the kitchen for a hasty consultation, for was it wise to puff up the Quarters with a chanted summons?
A compromise being decided on as the only possible course, after the booming teamster’s bell had summoned the Quarters, Cheon, all in white himself, bustled across to the verandah to call the gentry to the dinner by word of mouth:—“Dinner! Boss! Missus!” he sang—careful to specify his gentry, for not even reflected glory was to be shed over the Quarters. Then, moving in and out among the greenery as he put finishing touches to the table here and there, he glided into the wonders of his Christmas menu: “Soo-oup! Chuckie! Ha-am! Roo-oast Veal-er!” he chanted. “Cauli-flower! Pee-es! Bee-ens! Toe-ma-toes!” (with a regretful “tinned” in parenthesis)—“Shweet Poo-tay-toes! Bread Sau-ce!” On and on through mince pies, sweets, cakes, and fruits, went the monotonous chant, the Măluka and the missus standing gravely at attention, until a triumphant paeon of “Plum-m-m Poo-dinn!” soared upwards as Cheon waddled off through the decorated verandah extension for his soup tureen.
But a sudden, unaccountable shyness had come over the Quarters, and as Cheon trundled away, a hurried argument reached our ears of “Go on! You go first!” “No, you. Here! none of that”; and then, after a short subdued scuffle, the Dandy, looking slightly dishevelled, came through the doorway with just the suspicion of assistance from within; and the ice being thus broken the rest of the company came forward in a body and slipped into whichever seat came handiest.
As all of us, with the exception of the Dandy, were Scotch, four of us being Macs, the Măluka chose our Christmas grace from Bobby Burns; and quietly and reverently our Scotch hearts listened to those homely words: