The Ocean Cats Paw | Page 9

the distant reports of the muskets.
"But that doesn't often happen, sir, for between you and me and the
post, seeing that the prisoners are only soldiers, after all, I don't believe
that though they have their orders, our men ever try to hit them; and
very glad I am."
"Ah, ah, ah, Mrs Champernowne, that isn't loyal, you know, that isn't
loyal to his Majesty the King and your country."
"I can't help that, Dr Robson, and I am not speaking, sir, as a subject,
but as a woman and a mother who has a brave stout boy in our good
King's Guards. Now suppose, sir, that you were a mother." Uncle Paul
grunted audibly.
"And had a boy the same as I have, and Bony Napolyparty had taken
him prisoner. How would you like him to be shot down?"
Rodd literally jumped in his alarm, for there was a tremendously wild
cissing from the pan and a horrible suggestion therewith that Mrs
Champernowne had been turning the rasher with so much energy that
she had thrown the cooking slice on to the fire itself instead of into its
native pan, while a sudden gush as of hot burning fat came up the little
stairs.

But the pleasant sizzling sounds began again directly, and Rodd, who
was ravenously hungry, consequent upon the bad part he had played
over the sandwiches beneath the tor, sighed in relief as he realised that
the widow's energetic treatment had only splashed a little of the fat over
the side of the pan.
As Rodd listened for a continuation of the political discussion, in which
it seemed to him that Uncle Paul had got the worst of it, for neither the
widow nor he spoke for the next three or four minutes, and the pan had
it all its own way, there was some creaking of the boards as the
naturalist stumped about, and when he did speak it was evident that he
thought it wise to change the subject. And it was the inner man who
now spoke--
"Our tea-supper nearly ready, Mrs Champernowne?"
"Oh yes, sir. The second rasher's about done. How many eggs shall I
cook?"
"Oh, one, or perhaps two, for me," shouted Uncle Paul.
"Oh, I say!" muttered Rodd.
"Better cook eight or ten for my nephew," cried the doctor dryly. "He'll
eat like a young wolf."
"What a shame!" muttered Rodd. "I'll serve him out for this."
"Fried, of course, sir?" came from the kitchen.
"Murder, woman, no!" roared Uncle Paul. "Fry! That is wild
west-country ignorance, madam! Are you not aware, madam, that the
action of boiling fat upon albumen is to produce a coagulate leathery
mass of tough indigestible matter inimical to the tender sensitive lining
of the most important organ of the human frame, lying as it does
without assimilation or absorption upon the epigastric region, and
producing an irritation that may require medical treatment to allay?"

"Dear, dear, dear, dear me, no, sir! Really, you quite fluster me with all
those long words. Who ever heard that fried ham and eggs were bad for
anybody?"
"Then I tell you now, madam," shouted the doctor, "that--"
"Don't you take any notice, Mrs Champernowne," shouted Rodd. "It's
only uncle's fun."
"Wuff!" went Uncle Paul, with a snap like that of an angry dog.
"Wuff!"
"Fried, please, Mrs Champernowne; four for uncle and three for me."
"Umph!" grunted the doctor, and a few minutes later he and his nephew,
hunger-sharpened and weary-legged, were seated facing one another in
the widow's pleasant little parlour, hard at work, and risking all the
direful symptoms upon which the elder had discoursed, and thoroughly
enjoying hearty draughts of Mrs Champernowne's fragrant tea.
There was silence in the kitchen, following the final hissings and
odours emitted by the hard-worked pan, but a great deal of business
went on in the little parlour, the first words that were spoken being by
Uncle Paul, who growled out--
"Here, I suppose you had better tell the old lady to put on another
rasher of ham to fry."
"For you, uncle?" said Rodd archly.
"No, sir, for you. You traitorous young dog, leaving all those beautiful
trout up on the moor to be devoured by the enemies of your country!"
"Well, they can't eat them raw, uncle."
"Why not, sir? They are only so many ravening savages, ready to
breathe out battle and slaughter if they got free."
"That poor boy didn't seem much of a savage, uncle," said Rodd quietly;

and after a sidelong glance to see whether he dared say it, the boy
continued tentatively, "I wish the poor fellow had been here to have
this ham."
"What!" roared his uncle fiercely. "Bah! You wouldn't have left him a
mouthful. Wolf--raven!"
"Yes, I would, uncle. I'd have