‘Sir,’ said he, ‘this is a Twelfth-cake of very superior make. If the young lady who sits reading there was only to taste it, she would say so too. It was made by my grandfather himself, who is known to be one of the first makers in all Bishopsgate street; I may say the very first. There is no better in all the world. You see how heavy it is; what a quantity of plums, currants, butter, sugar, and orange and lemon-peel there is in it, besides brandy and caraway comfits. See! what a beautiful frost-work of white sugar there is all over the top and sides! See, too, what characters there are, and made in sugar of all colors! Kings and queens in their robes, and lions and dogs, and Jem Crow, and Swiss cottages in winter, and railway carriages, and girls with tambourines, and a village steeple with a cow looking in at the porch; and all these standing or walking, or dancing upon white sugar, surrounded with curling twists and true lover’s knots in pink and green citron, with damson cheese and black currant paste between. You never saw such a cake before, sir, and I’m sure none of your family ever smelt any cake at all like it. It’s quite a nosegay for Queen Victoria herself; and if you were to buy it at grandfather’s shop, you would have to pay fifteen shillings and more for it.’
‘Thomas Plummy!’ said the master, looking very earnestly at the boy; ‘Thomas Plummy! take the doll, and give me the cake. I only hope it may prove half as good as you say. And it is my opinion that, if you, Thomas Plummy, should not happen to be sent to New South Wales to bake brown bread, you may some day or other come to be Lord Mayor of London.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the boy. ‘How many Abernethy biscuits will you take for your cocked hat?’
The master instantly put his hand up to his head, looking so confused and vexed, and the boy ran laughing out of the shop. At the door he was met by his sister, who had been waiting to receive me in her arms: and they both ran home, the little girl hugging me close to her bosom, and the boy laughing so much at the affair of the cocked hat that he could hardly speak a word all the way.
CHAPTER III
TWELFTH-NIGHT
That evening little Ellen Plummy begged to go to bed earlier than usual. She took me with her, and I had the great happiness of passing the whole night in the arms of my first mamma.
The next morning, however, was the day before Twelfth-day, and there were so many preparations to be made, and so many things to do in the house, that the pastry-cook required the help of everybody who could do anything at all; so he desired Ellen to put me in a box till Twelfth-night was over, because he wanted her to sort small cakes, and mix sugar-plums of different colors, and pile up sticks of barley sugar, and arrange artificial flowers, and stick bits of holly with red berries into cakes for the upper shelves of his shop-window.
I was, therefore, placed in a dark box in the bedroom, and lay there thinking.
After I had gone over in my mind all that I had at present seen and heard since I was a doll, I began to wonder how long this confinement in the dark box would continue. The morning seemed so very long. But twice my little mamma, Ellen, came creeping softly upstairs, and ran and opened the box—took me out, gave me a kiss, put me in again, shut the lid of the box, and downstairs she softly tripped back, to continue her work. The afternoon was also terribly long, and I saw nothing of mamma till about six in the evening, when she came and took me out, and embraced me, and said, ‘Oh, you dear doll! I shall come to put you to bed!’ and away she ran again.