“Thanks, and wake up Philpot while you’re out.”
Morrison went, and the others kicked their heels impatiently and eyed the good things hungrily as they waited.
Cusack tried toasting a herring on one of the small forks, but the heat of the fire was too great for him to hold his hand at such close quarters, and he gave it up in disgust.
What was the matter with everybody this afternoon? Morrison was away ages and did not return.
“Oh, bother it all!” exclaimed Cusack, whose patience was now fairly exhausted, “if they don’t choose to come I’m hung if they’ll get anything now. I’ll go and get the pan myself.”
And off he went in high dudgeon, leaving his guests in charge of the feast.
“If he can’t get the pan or a toasting-fork,” said Curtis, disinterestedly, “wouldn’t it be as well to have the dough-nuts now, and leave the herrings till supper, eh, Pil? Pity for them to get stale.”
Pilbury said nothing, but broke off a little piece of the peppermint-rock in a meditative manner, and drummed his feet on the floor.
“Upon my word,” he broke out after a good three minutes’ waiting, “that blessed pan must be jolly heavy. There’s three of them sticking to it now!”
“Wait a bit, I hear him coming,” said Curtis, going to the door. He stepped out into the passage, Morgan following him.