“Ho, that sounds better,” said his brother, the complacent look which had stolen over his face on sitting down to the banquet now returning again in the expectation of having something savoury at last. “A stew, eh? Why, that used to be my favourite dish at home; don’t you remember, laddie?”
“Yes, I remember,” responded Eric, not quite so joyously as his brother evidently expected; “but,” he added hesitatingly, “you’ll find this a little different, because, ah, you know, ah, I hadn’t got all the proper things. Still, it’s very nice, very nice indeed!”
The amateur cook brought out the last words with great earnestness, as if wishing to impress Fritz with the fact that, although the dish might not be quite what he expected, yet it would be certainly “tasty”—that is, according to his notions!
It was; for, hardly had Fritz tasted a spoonful of it, than he spat it out again, making the most terrible faces.
“Why, this is worse than the other!” he cried rather angrily. “What on earth have you made it of. Eric?”
“Well, I put in some pork and the tinned oysters—”
“That mixture would be almost enough to settle one!” said Fritz, interrupting him. “Anything else?”
“Oh, yes. As there were only a few potatoes left from those we used for planting in the garden I put them in; and, as I had no other vegetables, I also shook in some preserved peaches, and—”
“There, that will do,” shouted Fritz, quite put out at having his expected dinner treat spoilt in such a fashion,—“salt pork, pickled oysters, and preserved peaches,—good heavens! The stew only wanted some cheese to be added to make it perfect.”
“I did put some in,” said Eric innocently.