“What for?” I asked, suspiciously.
Uncle Antonio’s face became radiant. “Hist!” he replied, in a stage whisper. “Me cooka da spaghett! Nica da spaghett!”
For the first time in my life, I felt deep and abiding love for my Uncle. Needless to say, I hastened back with the required articles.
In a kettle, over the fire, Uncle Antonio fried the pork chops and the onion to a deep seal brown, then added the contents of both cans of tomatoes. He salted the mixture liberally, then from his pack brought two large cloves of garlic and a bottle of paprika. He sliced the garlic in, sprinkled it with the paprika, and, by some means known only to himself, decreased the heat.
All day the appetising compound simmered. At night, Uncle Antonio pressed the entire mixture through a sieve that he had in his kit, and set it aside. Then he prepared a kettle of boiling water, with a tablespoonful of salt in it, and from the inside of his organ took out a great bundle of spaghetti, the tubes being very small, and something over a yard and a half long.
“Nica da spaghett,” crooned Uncle, stroking it fondly. “Maka da wonderful moosic!”
He boiled it twenty minutes by my jewelled repeater, drained it, put some on my plate, poured a liberal quantity of the sauce over it, and passed me a bottle of grated cheese, which, until now, he had kept in his hat.
I tasted of it with some misgivings, but instantly I was Uncle’s. Through my system vibrated a single joyous thought—I had watched him and I knew how to do it.
I must have eaten nearly a peck of it. There was some left, and when I went to bed I put it outside, for fear I should get up and eat it in the night.
In the morning I crept out, hungrily, thinking to steal a march upon Uncle, but, to my astonishment, the plate looked as if it had been washed, and all the sauce was gone!