It was a feverish and excited Eliza that Kathleen found in the kitchen when she tripped downstairs after the soup course. On a large platter the cook had built a kind of untidy thicket of parsley and chopped celery, eked out with lettuce leaves. Ambushed in this were lurking a number of very pallid and bluish-looking eggs, with a nondescript stuffing bulging out of them. “I forgot to measure the yolks, Miss,” wailed Eliza. “That's why the stuffing don't fit. Shall I throw a dash of rum on board to stiffen 'em up?”
In spite of her vexation, Kathleen could not help laughing. “No, no,” she said. “We'll tidy up the nest a bit and send them upstairs.”
“That's grand,” said Eliza, watching Kathleen's quick fingers. “'Tis a beautiful comely hand you have, miss, one that it's a pleasure to admire.”
“Now, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “you must not shout up the dumb waiter so. I distinctly heard you cry out 'This plate's for the parson!' as you sent up one of the dishes of soup.”
“If you please, Miss,” said Eliza. “That was because it was the plate I spilled a spoonful of pepper into, and I thought it had better go to the cloth than anywhere else. Miss Kathleen, I have something very urgent to say to you before them two counterfeiters upstairs commit any affidavits or sworn statements.”
“You dish out the eggs, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “and I'll send them up the dumb waiter. Quick, now! And where's your dessert? Is it ready?”
“All doing finely, Miss,” answered Eliza, but as she opened the oven door her assurance collapsed. She drew out a cottage pudding, blackened and burnt to carbon.
“A great success,” said the bogus cook, but holding it on the other side of her apron so that Kathleen could not see. “Here, I'll just shoot it up the shaft myself before it gets cold.” She hurried into the pantry, whisked it into the dumb waiter before Kathleen could catch a glimpse, and sent it flying aloft.
“That smelt a little burnt, cook,” said Kathleen.
“Just a wee bit crisp on one side, miss.”
Kathleen was in the pantry, with her nose up the dumb-waiter shaft, sniffing the trail of the cottage pudding and wondering whether she ought to recall it for inspection, when Eliza, turning toward the back door, saw the gas-man on the threshold. The cook's mind moved rapidly in this emergency. She knew that if Priapus found himself face to face with Kathleen, dangerous exposures would follow at once.
“Mary,” she whispered to the maid, who had just come down from upstairs, “run tell the Mistress the gas-man is here again. I'll send him down the cellar.” And while Kathleen was still in the pantry and before the pseudo gas-man could demur, Eliza seized him by the coat and hurried him across the kitchen to the cellar door. She opened this and pointed downstairs. The bewildered gas-man disappeared down the steps and Eliza closed the door and turned the key.
“Now, Miss,” said Eliza. “I have something very serious to say to you—”
Just at that moment she saw the clerical black of the Reverend Mr. Carter coming down the kitchen stairs.
“—and that is, we'd best get this fruit up without delay,” and seizing a large bowl of apples, oranges, and bananas, she passed it to Kathleen and backed her into the pantry again. Kathleen unsuspectingly pushed the fruit up the dumb waiter and meanwhile it took no more than an instant for Eliza to take the curate by the arm, motion him to silence, and push him toward the cellar door.
“He's down there,” she whispered, and Carter innocently followed his fellow Scorpion. Again Eliza closed the door and turned the key.
“Well, Eliza,” said Kathleen, “I don't think you're much of a cook, but you're a willing worker.”
“Miss Kathleen,” said the cook, who was now more anxious than ever to cleanse her bosom of much perilous stuff, “are you very down on practical jokes?”
“Practical jokes? Why, yes, Eliza. I think they are the lowest form of humour. Good gracious! I do believe we've forgotten the coffee! Have you got it ready?”
“Yes, Miss; yes, Miss; right here,” said Eliza, bustli............