“You are a stupid blockhead! could you not say I was gone to the washerwoman’s?”
“But were you?” said Franklin.
“Was I?” cried Corkscrew, and looked as if he would have struck him again; “how dare you give me the lie, Mr. Hypocrite? You would be ready enough, I’ll be bound, to make excuses for yourself. Why are not mistress’ clogs cleaned? Go along and blacken ’em, this minute, and send Felix to me.”
From this time forward Felix alone was privileged to enter the butler’s pantry. Felix became the favourite of Corkscrew; and, though Franklin by no means sought to pry into the mysteries of their private conferences, nor ever entered without knocking at the door, yet it was his fate once to be sent of a message at an unlucky time; and, as the door was half open, he could not avoid seeing Felix drinking a bumper of red liquor, which he could not help suspecting to be wine; and, as the decanter, which usually went upstairs after dinner, was at this time in the butler’s grasp, without any stopper in it, he was involuntarily forced to suspect they were drinking his mistress’ wine.
Nor were the bumpers of port the only unlawful rewards which Felix received: his aunt, the cook, had occasion for his assistance, and she had many delicious douceurs in her gift. Many a handful of currants, many a half-custard, many a triangular remnant of pie, besides the choice of his own meal at breakfast, dinner and supper, fell to the share of the favourite Felix; whilst Franklin was neglected, though he took the utmost pains to please the cook in all honourable service, and, when she was hot, angry, or hurried, he was always at hand to help her; and in the hour of adversity, when the clock struck five, and no dinner was dished, and no kitchen maid with twenty pair of hands was to be had, Franklin would answer to her call, with flowers to garnish her dishes, and presence of mind to know, in the midst of the commotion, where everything that was wanting was to be found; so that, quick as lightning, all difficulties vanished before him. Yet when the danger was over, and the hour of adversity had past, the ungrateful cook would forget her benefactor, and, when it came to his supper time, would throw him, with a carelessness that touched him sensibly, anything which the other servants were too nice to eat. All this Franklin bore with fortitude; nor did he envy Felix the dainties which he ate, sometimes close beside him: “For,” said he to himself, “I have a clear conscience, and that is more than Felix can have. I know how he wins cook’s favour too well, and I fancy I know how I have offended her; for since the day I saw the basket, she has done nothing but huff me.”
The history of the basket was this. Mrs. Pomfret, the housekeeper, had several times, directly and indirectly, given the world below to understand that she and her mistress thought there was a prodigious quantity of meat eaten of late. Now, when she spoke, it was usually at dinner time; she always looked, or Franklin imagined that she looked, suspiciously at him. Other people looked more maliciously; but, as he felt himself perfectly innocent, he went on eating his dinner in silence.
But at length it was time to explain. One Sunday there appeared a handsome sirloin of beef, which before noon on Monday had shrunk almost to the bare bone, and presented such a deplorable spectacle to the opening eyes of Mrs. Pomfret that her long smothered indignation burst forth, and she boldly declared she was now certain there had been foul play, and she would have the beef found, or she would know why. She spoke, but no beef appeared, till Franklin, with a look of sudden recollection, cried, “Did not I see something like a piece of beef in a basket in the dairy?—I think—”
The cook, as if somebody had smote her a deadly blow, grew pale; but, suddenly recovering the use of her speech, turned upon Franklin, and, with a voice of thunder, gave him the lie direct; and forthwith, taking Mrs. Pomfret by the ruffle, led the way to the dairy, declaring she could defy the world—“that so she could, and would.” “There, ma’am,” said she kicking an empty basket which lay on the floor—“there’s malice for you. Ask him why he don’t show you the beef in the basket.”
“I thought I saw—” poor Franklin began.
“You thought you saw!” cried the cook, coming close up to him with kimboed arms, and looking like a dragon; “and pray, sir, what business has such a one as you to think you see? And pray, ma’am, will you be pleased to speak—perhaps, ma’am, he’ll condescend to obey you—ma’am, will you be pleased to forbid him my dairy? for here he comes prying and spying about; and how, ma’am, am I to answer for my butter and cream, or anything at all? I’m sure it’s what I can’t pretend to, unless you do me the justice to forbid him my places.”