“When I got out of the room, there was the man I had hired to wait, and says he:—
“‘If you please, ma’am where are the knives? I can’t find any at all!’
“‘No knives!’ says I. ‘Dear me, don’t come to me about the knives. Ask the cook, of course.’
“‘Please, ma’am, I have asked her, and she only laughed.’
“‘Then,’ said I, ‘ask the housemaid. It’s impossible for me to come out and look for the knives.’
“Well, ladies,” continued No. 4, “would you believe it?—could anyone believe it?—when I sat down to dinner, and began to help the soup, no sooner had the silver ladle (my ladle is silver, ladies) been plunged into the tureen, than a most singular rattling was heard.
“‘William,’ cried I, half in a whisper, to the waiter who was holding the plate, ‘what in the world is this? Surely Cook has not left the bones in?’
“‘Please, ma’am, I don’t know,’ was all the man could say.
“Well—there was no remedy now, so I dipped the ladle in again, and lifted out—oh! ma’am, I know if it was anybody but myself who told you, you wouldn’t believe it—a ladleful of the lost knives! There they were, my best beautiful ivory handles, all in the white soup! And while I was discovering them, the gentleman at the other end of the table had found all the kitchen-knives, with black handles, in the brown soup!
“There never was anything so mortifying before. And what do you think was Cook’s excuse, when I reproached her?