Raffles said that, as far as he knew, the “slaveys” were thinking about anything else than the proceedings of the two young Oliphants. “Besides,” said he, “being ’olidays, there’s only me and the cook, and a maid—and she’s took up with nursing Mrs Parker.”
“Poor old Parker! How is she? Pretty chippy? Sorry she’s laid up. All serene, Raff. Keep it mum, and you shall have the threepenny. Jolly heavy box that—that’s the cocoa-nuts.”
“Oh, you’re going to have a feast, are you?” said Raffles.
“Getting on that way,” said Tom. “We can’t ask you, you know, because you’ll have to wait. But you shall have some of the leavings if you back us up.”
With locked doors that night Tom and Jill unpacked and took stock of their commissariat.
“Thirty-six herrings cut up in four,” said Tom, with an arithmetical precision which would have gratified Mr Armstrong, “makes 144 goes of herring. If every man-jack turns up, that’ll only be six goes short, and if you and I sit out of it, only four. We might cheek in a head or two by accident to make that up.”
“Who will cook them?” asked Jill.
“Oh, we can do that, I fancy, on a tray or something. Then six cocoa-nuts into 150 will be twenty-five. You’ll have to cut each one into twenty-five bits, Jill. Then one bun apiece, and—oh, the ice! How on earth are we to slice that up? There’s about a soup-plate full. Couldn’t get strawberry, so he’s sent coffee.”
“Ugh!” said Jill; “I’ll give up my share.”
“I did my best,” said Tom. “It’s not my fault strawberries are out of season.”