Dragonfel surveyed the work with great satisfaction, and asked Grouthead who was in general charge:
“When were they fed last?”
“Three days ago, kind master!”
Everyone called him “kind master,” though whether this was in sarcasm or not no one knew.
“See that they don’t get anything to eat before the full week is up,” ordered Dragonfel. “And that reminds me of my own dinner. Boundingbore, tell the cook I want turtle soup, spiced venison pastries, apple dumplings, strawberry shortcake, and iced lemonade with plenty of crushed raspberries in it.”
The mouths of the poor little mine-sprites watered, and they smacked their lips, but Grouthead snapped his long snake-whip so that it sounded like a pistol-shot, and they frantically continued digging away in the earth with their fingers.
Boundingbore flew to do Dragonfel’s bidding, and Snoutpimple observed, rather timidly:
“The air down here is very bad, kind master!”
“That’s good,” said Dragonfel, with hearty unction. “It might make me ill if I were obliged to remain, so as I have a proper regard for my health I think I will get right out into the open.”
Attended by Mandrake, Snoutpimple, Wolfinger, and some of the rest, he went on his way, while Grouthead snapped his whip to incite the frightened, gasping, exhausted mine-sprites to further effort.