“Show me how and I’ll do it,” said William.
“Shove that stone a little more to the left then. Steady—So! That’ll do! Got any wood? No? You slip across to the shop and ask them to give you some small brush-stuff from the oven. Stop! And my apron, too. Marsh is the name.”
William left him chuckling wheezily. When he returned Mr. Marsh clad himself in a long white apron of office which showed so clearly that Carpenter from far off returned at once.
“H’sh! H’sh!” said Mr. Marsh before he could speak. “You carry on with what you’re doing. Marsh is my name. My son was a Scout once. Buffaloes—Hendon-way. It’s all right. Don’t you grudge an old man enjoying himself.”
The Walrus looked amazedly at William moving in three directions at once with his face on fire.
“It’s all right,” said William. “He’s giving us cooking-lessons.” Then—the words came into his mouth by themselves—“I’ll take the responsibility.”
“Yes, yes! He knew I could cook. Quite a young Sherlock he is! You carry on.” Mr. Marsh turned his back on the Walrus and despatched William again with some orders to his shop across the road. “And you’d better tell ’em to put ’em all in a basket,” he cried after him.
William returned with a fair assortment of mixed material, including eggs, two rashers of bacon, and a packet of patent flour concerning which last Mr. Marsh said things no baker should say about his own goods. The frying-pan came out of the push-cart, with some other oddments, and it was not till after it was greased that Mr. Marsh demanded William’s name. He got it in full, and it produced strange effects on the little fat man.
“An’ ’ow do you spell your middle name?” he asked.
“G-l-a-double-s-e,” said William.