“For aught I see they are as sick that
Surfeit with too much, as they that starve with
Nothing.”
We had just finished our breakfast one morning, and were lying about the court to assist digestion, when I chanced to remark that I considered the flesh not quite so nicely cooked as usual.
“Your palate must be out of order,” returned Trimbush. “Mark is as good a boiler as ever heated a copper.”
“Still the material might have been tough,” said I, “and consequently required longer boiling.”
“I think not,” rejoined my friend, with a smack of his lips. “My taste may be depended upon in such important matters.”
“A great deal of one’s comfort depends upon the cook,” I observed.
“Beyond conception,” emphatically replied the old hound. “In addition to which,” he continued, “we can’t perform our duties unless properly kept. The meal must be good and old, the flesh well but not over-boiled, and the broth rich and sweet to enable us to kill foxes handsomely. Our strength, speed, and wind, depend upon the feeding.”
“No doubt about it,” coincided I.