Australian Tales - Setis

shells, and a variety of other refuse, whilst cooking utensils and dishes of
all sorts and sizes littered the place in every direction. Every saucepan
and kettle in the kitchen had been brought into use, and the range was
covered with them. The fryingpan, filled with curried kidneys, was on a
chair, the long handle of the pan protruding through a broken windowpane,
and the sooty coffee-pot, with the spout burnt off, was placed on
the dresser shelf. Samson was sitting on the floor with a saucepanful of
potatoes between his knees, which he was actively stirring with a
toasting fork, and smoking a cigar at the same time.
“Now, then, Sam, let us consider,” said Mr. Phiggs, again consulting
his chart; “I think those potatoes will do now. Dear, dear!” he added,
after a short pause, “I see we have made an annoying blunder; the quart
of new milk should have been boiling hot. What a nuisance! the cream
potatoes will be as cold as cream ice before they are dished. However, it
can't be helped now; we must try if we can warm them up again. Turn
them into that pie-dish, and put them on the hob. Look alive, there's a
good fellow!”
“Don't you think they would have looked nicer if they had been peeled
before we made cream of them?” asked Sam.
“Peeled, to be sure! why what a precious gowk you must be not to have
done that without my telling you,” said Mr. Phiggs, with considerable
warmth of temper. “Who the dickens would have thought of smashing
potatoes with the skins on but a pig with his tusks or a donkey with his
hoofs?”
Stung by that severe reproof, Samson rose to his feet in a moment, and
sharply retorted upon Mr. Phiggs, in the attitude of a pugilist. A stormy
altercation ensued, and ended in Samson's donning his coat, and leaving
the kitchen to the sole occupancy of his half-bewildered friend, who had
long since began to wish his Indian breakfast at the bottom of the Indian
Ocean.
Mrs. Phiggs was aware of her husband's dilemma, and would willingly
have gone to his aid, as well for his own sake as for the good order and
credit of her house; but she knew his disposition too well to interfere
with him at such an exciting time; so, like a wise little woman, she kept
aloof, but at the same time actively exerted herself with her other servant
in preparing the breakfast-room, as far as she could, for her coming
guests, whom she expected very soon, as the steamer had been signalled
for some time. She once or twice felt a quizzical disposition to peep into
the kitchen, and wish Jacob a merry Christmas, but pity for him would
not allow her to tease him at a time when he was almost overwhelmed
with perplexity.
“Let me see,” soliloquised Mr. Phiggs, putting on his spectacles, “let
me see; one pound of best Mocha coffee, boiled down to a quart, and put
into a gallon and a quarter of boiling milk. Yes, that's all right; there's the