Ovide, however, was a difficult subject to silence, and said apologetically, as he took up the platter:  “It’s vary much too bad, sir, dat I’m forgot to mak her freeze out before I’m put her in de oven.  But de puddin’, sir,”—­with a sudden revival of his old self-confidence—­“no danger of de same trouble with her; I’m sure she’s cook vary well all de way over.”

Somewhat mollified by the outlook of getting a little of something to eat, Fielding replied somewhat less shortly, “Well, hurry up and bring it along.”

As we silently waited for him to return, we heard him noisily lift the kettle containing the now doubly precious pudding off the stove; but scarcely had he done so when he uttered an amazed cry, and a few moments later hurried up to the table again, the big kettle in his hand and his eyes fairly bulging with excitement.

“See!  Monsieur,” he exclaimed, almost superstitiously, as he halted at my side and pointed to the mouth of the kettle, “see de size dat puddin’ she’s now!  When I’m put her in she’s so small dat she’s go in easy; but now look! she’s swell, and swell, and swell till she’s fill all de kettle inside, and now she’s tree times too big for de mouth, and she won’t come out.”

I glanced down, and true enough, the pudding had assumed alarming proportions.  Little wonder the problem of getting the thing intact out of the kettle’s small mouth had caused him such woful distress.

“Well,” I said impatiently, “go pour off the water and take it out in sections; if there is more pudding than you expected, so much the better; there seems little chance of us getting anything else to eat.”

As he was scudding away to carry out my instructions, Robbins, whose sharp eyes had seen the freak in the kettle, said to Ovide in an undertone, “Thou hast not forgotten, lad, to take the frost out of that, anyway.”

After a very brief absence, Ovide hurried back again, bearing aloft the most marvellous pudding human eyes, I am persuaded, ever rested upon.  Apart from the pitiful manner in which it had been rent and torn asunder, its complexion was such as to attract the most lively interest—­no chronic sufferer from jaundice ever sported such a gorgeous yellow.  The mystery of its unwonted complexion was solved the moment he laid it on the table:  the car was permeated with the rank odor of baking powder.

Out of pure curiosity, I put a piece of the pudding into my mouth.  It was something awful!  A spoonful of pure baking powder could not have tasted much worse.  It had been only partially cooked, too.

Fielding gave Ovide one look, and then, too full for speech, he pushed back his chair and strode to the other end of the car.

Slowly I leaned back in my chair and fixed my eyes on the face of the now thoroughly craven-looking Ovide.  “What made you tell us you knew how to cook?” I asked, trying hard to speak without anger, but in utter failure.  The cravings of the inner man, just then, were strong upon me.