"What on earth has happened?"
A small boy was outside--Peter. He explained,
"Oh, it's only the broom and dustpan gone tobogganing down the stairs. It's Bessie's fault; she shouldn't leave them on the landing."
Bessie, appearing from a room opposite, disclaimed responsibility.
"I told you to look out where you were going, but you never do. I'd only put them down for a second, while I went in to empty a jug of water on to Jack, who won't get out of bed, and there are all the boots for him to clean."
Injured tones came through the open portal.
"You wait, that's all! I'll soak your bed tonight--I'll drown it. I don't want to clean your dirty boots, I'm not a shoe-black."
The breakfast was a failure. To begin with, it was inordinately late. It seemed that a bath was not obtainable. I had been promised some hot water, but as I waited and waited and none arrived, I proceeded to break the ice in my jug--it was a bitterly cold morning, nice "old-fashioned" weather--and to wash in the half-frozen contents. As I am not accustomed to perform my ablutions in partially dissolved ice, I fear that the process did not improve my temper.
It was past eleven when I got down, feeling not exactly in a "Christmassy" frame of mind. Everything, and everyone, seemed at sixes and sevens. It was after noon when breakfast appeared. The principal dish consisted of eggs and bacon; but as the bacon was fried to cinders, and the eggs all broken, it was not so popular as it might have been, Madge was moved to melancholy.
"Something will have to be done! We can't go on like this! We must have someone in to help us!"