"Come along in," he said. "Uncle Peter used to keep his guests waiting outside till it was all ready, but as we all saw the whole of it that last day, I don't see that I need start it all alone. It makes one a bit shaky and nervous, you see."
So Hodge and Mike, by no means unwillingly, followed him into the kitchen. Hodge was as usual very hungry, and again rather excited in hopes of a good dinner. Michael seemed depressed. He didn't care whether he was hungry or not; he was far from sanguine as to success for either Giles or himself; he missed his old uncle, and was rather in low spirits all round. Still of course he had no thought of refusing to take part in Giles's effort.
The three seated themselves, leaving the space for the table's hoped-for appearance. Giles held the bell in his hand, every now and then glancing at the old clock in the corner, of which he was the happy possessor.
"It doesn't keep such very good time," he said in a low voice, "but I set it right this morning, so it can't be more than a moment or two slow."
And then they waited till the long hand approached and slightly passed the twenty-nine minutes to the fateful half-hour.
Giles began to recite the charm, the two others listening. He said it quite correctly, then slowly raising the bell he rang it clearly. Utter silence. Then—yes—the first whirring was heard, gradually growing louder as it went on, till with the same sort of spring or swing the floor opened and up came the table, the mysterious space closing again at once.
"Hurrah!" exclaimed Giles, starting up, and even Michael's heart beat faster with excitement. But Hodge, whose one thought was his dinner, Hodge's red face grew paler and his expression darkened.
"Not so fast," he said; "not much hurrahing about it." And then the others saw what his greedy eyes had at once perceived. The table was, as ever, covered with a spotless cloth—three places were laid for, as far as plates and knives were concerned, but on each lay a small loaf of black or brown bread and a wedge of cheese. That was all! No end dishes, no side ones—no centre with fruit—nothing but the plain everyday luncheon they were used to when at work in the fields, and none too much of it either, and as Hodge added, muttering, "not even a glass of beer"!
The three looked at each other. Giles and Mike began to laugh, as much at Hodge's angry disgust as at the thing itself.
"You've not hit it off, after all," said Michael to his host. "Still, anything's better than nothing. I vote that we eat what there is," and he cut a slice off his loaf. The others—Hodge very gloomily—did the same and began to eat. The provisions were good of their kind.