Tom Blake was sleepy and immobile. We spread him without hindrance on a sofa, where he snored peacefully whilst the Reverend brought eggs and a slab of bacon out of a cupboard in the kitchen. He also brought a frying-pan, and a bowl of fat.
“Is your cooking anything extra good?” he asked.
“No, Mr. Hatton,” I answered, rather stiff; “I’ve never cooked anything in my life.” I may not be in a very high position in the “Moon,” but I’ve never descended to menial’s work yet.
For about five minutes after that the Reverend was too busy to speak. Then he said, without turning his head away from the hissing pan, “I wish you’d do me a favour, Price.”
“Certainly,” I said.
“Look in the cupboard and see whether there are any knives, forks, plates, and a loaf and a bit of butter, will you?”
I looked, and, sure enough, they were there.
“Yes, they’re all here,” I called to him.
“And is there a tray?”
“Yes, there’s a tray.”