“A tremendous weapon satire in the ’ands of a clever man,” said Erb exultantly, “takes the starch out of ’em like drenching with a fire ’ose. Am I supposed to stay on ’ere whilst this new chap of yours mops up his tea?”
“Unless me lady comes down from Eaton Square to lord it over us all.”
“Nice occupation for a man of my—a man of my—”
“Don’t say ‘intellect,’” begged his sister. “Spoils me appetite if I laugh much before dinner.”
A pleasure to watch the sister, her sleeves rolled up to the elbow, setting right the things on the table, placing, with the aid of an exact pair of eyes, the china cruet-stand at the very centre, fabricating some mustard in a teacup, and pouring it cleanly and carefully into the mustard-pot, glancing at the oven with an encouraging, “’Urry up there!” to the pie, and ever a wary look-out on the lid of the saucepan on the fire; the intervals she filled by complaining of the price of coals, by dusting the mantelpiece, by asking questions about the morning’s speeches, and by explaining with great interest the trouble that came to a girl in her workshop consequent on accepting engagement rings from two young men at the same time. Presently the one right moment arrived, and out came the rabbit pie, with a crust not to be equalled for lightness and flakiness in Page’s Walk, where, indeed, experiments in the higher walks of cookery usually proved so disastrous as to lead to domestic contention and a review of all the varied grievances that had accumulated throughout the ages. Erb, at the head of the table, cut the pie, and his young sister sat at the side, with one foot on the insecure support, so that the table scarcely wobbled under this trying operation; there ensued some argument because Erb wanted to place both of the kidneys on her plate, and his sister would not hear of this, but a compromise was effected by sharing these dainties fairly and equally. His sister said grace.
“For what we are ’bout ’ceive, Lord make us truly thankful for.”
“Well?” she asked, rather nervously, as Erb took his first mouthful. Erb tasted with the air of a connoisseur.
“I’ve tasted worse,” he said.
“I was afraid how it was going to turn out,” confessed his sister with relief. “It’s long since I tried my ’and at a pie.”
“There’s nothing anyone can’t do in this so-called life of ours,” said Erb oracularly, “providin’ that we put our best into it. We’ve all been endowed—”