Supper-time came, and with it the hot-baked from the oven, laid on a
snowy cloth fresh from the press, and reticulated with folds, as in
Flemish "Last Suppers." Creedle and the boy fetched and carried with
amazing alacrity, the latter, to mollify his superior and make things
pleasant, expressing his admiration of Creedle's cleverness when they
were alone.
"I s'pose the time when you learned all these knowing things, Mr.
Creedle, was when you was in the militia?"
"Well, yes. I seed the world at that time somewhat, certainly, and
many ways of strange dashing life. Not but that Giles has worked hard
in helping me to bring things to such perfection to-day. 'Giles,' says
I, though he's maister. Not that I should call'n maister by rights,
for his father growed up side by side with me, as if one mother had
twinned us and been our nourishing."
"I s'pose your memory can reach a long way back into history, Mr.
Creedle?"
"Oh yes. Ancient days, when there was battles and famines and
hang-fairs and other pomps, seem to me as yesterday. Ah, many's the
patriarch I've seed come and go in this parish! There, he's calling for
more plates. Lord, why can't 'em turn their plates bottom upward for
pudding, as they used to do in former days?"
Meanwhile, in the adjoining room Giles was presiding in a
half-unconscious state. He could not get over the initial failures in
his scheme for advancing his suit, and hence he did not know that he
was eating mouthfuls of bread and nothing else, and continually
snuffing the two candles next him till he had reduced them to mere
glimmers drowned in their own grease. Creedle now appeared with a
specially prepared dish, which he served by elevating the little
three-legged pot that contained it, and tilting the contents into a
dish, exclaiming, simultaneously, "Draw back, gentlemen and ladies,
please!"
A splash followed. Grace gave a quick, involuntary nod and blink, and
put her handkerchief to her face.
"Good heavens! what did you do that for, Creedle?" said Giles, sternly,
and jumping up.
"'Tis how I do it when they baint here, maister," mildly expostulated
Creedle, in an aside audible to all the company.
"Well, yes--but--" replied Giles. He went over to Grace, and hoped
none of it had gone into her eye.
"Oh no," she said. "Only a sprinkle on my face. It was nothing."
"Kiss it and make it well," gallantly observed Mr. Bawtree.