Fogarty announced the dinner in a voice that savored of a joyous anticipation. He had had a private and confidential snack with the cook, but merely enough to make him wish for more.
“That’s me tail end of beef,” exclaimed Tim Rooney, as the huge mound of golden fatted meat was uncovered, behind which the host sat in a state of total eclipse—“that’s me tail end, and a lovelier baste never nipped grass, nor the—”
“Will you carve this turkey, Tim?” interrupted his sister.
“To be sure I will, Mary; but ye must let me do it me own way,” divesting himself of his coat and proceeding to work with a will.
“O Tim!”
“O uncle!”
“Let him alone,” exclaimed Mrs. Bowdler, whose teeth were watering for a slice of the breast. “Such a gigantic bird requires to be carved sans cérémonie.”
“When I was quartered at Dum Dum—” began the major.
“See here, now, me ould codger, we’ve had enough of that singsong.”
The major smiled grimly and tossed off a glass of Amontillado.