His head seemed made of suet, and he wore a hat adorned with tiny beef croquettes about the edge of the brim. Sprays of raisins and currants wandered over the crown, and about his neck was a necklace of allspice with dangles of cloves, cinnamon and nutmegs.
Pepper and salt sprinkled his clothing, which seemed made from orange and lemon peel. About his waist was a queer girdle from which wee sugar bowls, molasses jugs and vinegar cruets jingled together, while he tossed gay coloured apples into the air, caught them skilfully and then disposed of them in various pockets.
With a gay nod he cried, “Can no one answer the question? Let me tell you a little about myself, and then perhaps you can.
“You have all told how necessary you are. Let me tell you there would never have been a mince pie without me, nor anything else worth while.
“Let me ask of you growing things, how did you happen to grow? How did any of you happen to be? Some one had to plant the seeds. Some one had to take care of the trees, vines and shrubs after they started to grow.
“Where there was no rain, water had to be carried. The trees and vines had to be tended, trimmed, and cultivated. When the fruit was finally ready, it had to be packed and shipped all over the world.
“Even after it found its way into that kitchen, what happened? Everybody was—what—what was everybody doing? Now do tell me what this interrogation point stands for? Think!” he pleaded.
Everybody thought. They screwed up their faces and thought some more. They took one foot out from under them and thought. They put the other foot under them and thought again.
What was everybody doing to get the pie ready—chopping, grinding, baking.