No, Mr. Brown had never cooked a lobster.
“Well, it's simple enough. All you've got to do is bile him. Bile him in hot water till he's done.”
“I see.” The substitute assistant was not enthusiastic. Cooking he did not love.
“Humph!” he grunted. “I imagined if he was boiled at all, it was be in hot water, not cold.”
Atkins chuckled. “I mean you want to have the water bilin' hot when you put him in,” he explained. “Wait till she biles up good and then souse him; see?”
“I guess so. How do you know when he's done?”
“Oh—er—I can't tell you. You'll have to trust to your instinct, I cal'late. When he looks done, he IS done, most gen'rally speakin'.”
“Dear me! how clear you make it. Would you mind hintin' as to how he looks when he's done?”
“Why—why, DONE, of course.”
“Yes, of course. How stupid of me! He is done when he looks done, and when he looks done he is done. Any child could follow those directions. HOW is he done—brown?”