Old woman (in surprise): “And do they keep you for nothing, or do you work for your meat?”
Tom (impatiently): “Is that bran ready?” (The old woman goes to the binn, and measures out a quart of bran.) “What am I to pay you?”
Old woman: “A York shilling.”
Tom (wishing to test her honesty): “Is there any difference between a York shilling and a shilling of British currency?”
Old woman (evasively): “I guess not. Is there not a place in England called York?” (Looking up and leering knowingly in his face.)
Tom (laughing): “You are not going to come York over me in that way, or Yankee either. There is threepence for your pound of bran; you are enormously paid.”
Old woman (calling after him): “But the recipe; do you allow nothing for the recipe?”
Tom: “It is included in the price of the bran.”
“And so,” said he, “I came laughing away, rejoicing in my sleeve that I had disappointed the avaricious old cheat.”
The next thing to be done was to set the bran rising. By the help of Tom's recipe, it was duly mixed in the coffee-pot, and placed within a tin pan, full of hot water, by the side of the fire. I have often heard it said that a watched pot never boils; and there certainly was no lack of watchers in this case. Tom sat for hours regarding it with his large heavy eyes, the maid inspected it from time to time, and scarce ten minutes were suffered to elapse without my testing the heat of the water, and the state of the emptyings; but the day slipped slowly away, and night drew on, and yet the watched pot gave no signs of vitality. Tom sighed deeply when we sat down to tea with the old fare.