He wondered, if such should be the case, whether R. Jones’ presence of mind and native resource had been equal to explaining away the remark.

CHAPTER VIII

“’Put the butter or drippings in a kettle on the range, and when hot add the onions and fry them; add the veal and cook until brown.  Add the water, cover closely, and cook very slowly until the meat is tender; then add the seasoning and place the potatoes on top of the meat.  Cover and cook until the potatoes are tender, but not falling to pieces.’”

“Sure,” said Mr. Peters—­“not falling to pieces.  That’s right.  Go on.”

“‘Then add the cream and cook five minutes longer’” read Ashe.

“Is that all?”

“That’s all of that one.”

Mr. Peters settled himself more comfortably in bed.

“Read me the piece where it tells about curried lobster.”

Ashe cleared his throat.

“‘Curried Lobster,’” he read. “’Materials:  Two one-pound lobsters, two teaspoonfuls lemon juice, half a spoonful curry powder, two tablespoonfuls butter, a tablespoonful flour, one cupful scalded milk, one cupful cracker crumbs, half teaspoonful salt, quarter teaspoonful pepper.’”

“Go on.”

“’Way of Preparing:  Cream the butter and flour and add the scalded milk; then add the lemon juice, curry powder, salt and pepper.  Remove the lobster meat from the shells and cut into half-inch cubes.’”

“Half-inch cubes,” sighed Mr. Peters wistfully.  “Yes?”

“‘Add the latter to the sauce.’”

“You didn’t say anything about the latter.  Oh, I see; it means the half-inch cubes.  Yes?”

“’Refill the lobster shells, cover with buttered crumbs, and bake until the crumbs are brown.  This will serve six persons.’”

“And make them feel an hour afterward as though they had swallowed a live wild cat,” said Mr. Peters ruefully.

“Not necessarily,” said Ashe.  “I could eat two portions of that at this very minute and go off to bed and sleep like a little child.”

Mr. Peters raised himself on his elbow and stared at him.  They were in the millionaire’s bedroom, the time being one in the morning, and Mr. Peters had expressed a wish that Ashe should read him to sleep.  He had voted against Ashe’s novel and produced from the recesses of his suitcase a much-thumbed cookbook.  He explained that since his digestive misfortunes had come on him he had derived a certain solace from its perusal.

It may be that to some men sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things; but Mr. Peters had not found that to be the case.  In his hour of affliction it soothed him to read of Hungarian Goulash and escaloped brains, and to remember that he, too, the nut-and-grass eater of today, had once dwelt in Arcadia.

The passage of the days, which had so sapped the stamina of the efficient Baxter, had had the opposite effect on Mr. Peters.  His was one of those natures that cannot deal in half measures.  Whatever he did, he did with the same driving energy.  After the first passionate burst of resistance he had settled down into a model pupil in Ashe’s one-man school of physical culture.  It had been the same, now that he came to look back on it, at Muldoon’s.