cook, and one for the two fishermen, who later that evening appeared at the back door.
“Who were those men?” Maxfield asked when Conrad came back into the kitchen. “I heard what the Vales said last night at dinner,” he continued when Conrad ignored his question, “and if Brogg ever finds out that you hired poachers to get fish from his lakes . . .”
Conrad cut him short: “What did Mrs. Hill say about my accounts?”
“I didn’t show them to her. I decided to wait until you have been here two weeks. That way the picture will be more reliable.—But let me warn you, Brogg is a bad man to have for an enemy . . .”
“Do you know,” Conrad broke in again, “there is not a complete set of china or glassware in this house? I’ve seen Betsy break seven plates, four glasses and two cups. Even Eggy hasn’t broken that many. Is it the butler’s or the housekeeper’s responsibility to see that a decent serving set exists? And I don’t mean perfect, just decent. It is impossible to entertain with our mutilated remains.”
Slowly the old butler’s neck and face turned red. “Whoever’s responsibility it is,” he replied in a trembling voice, “it is not yours.”
The two men glared at each other, and then Maxfield turned and stalked out, his lips still trembling.
“Mind your ulcers,” Conrad called after him.
After dinner Conrad was in the kitchen, shaping a crown roast for next day’s meal, when he heard a scratching at the door. He opened it, and a large cream-colored cat streaked in from the dining room and began sniffing around the legs of the worktable.
Conrad was just contemplating chucking it out the back door when a quick rap sounded and Ester walked in, followed by her brother a few steps behind.
“I was right,” she said; “there’s Queen Bee III.” She went over and picked up the cat. “Naughty, naughty kitty,” she intoned, stroking it.
“I hope we haven’t disturbed you,” Harold apologized.
Conrad resumed his labors.
“You made those delicious mice, didn’t you?” Ester said, seeming to notice Conrad for the first time. It sounded as if she had eaten the mice herself. “Will you make some more—this Sunday?”
“No.”
Ester frowned. “No?” she repeated.
“I’m going to make some birds.”
“Oh!”
For a moment Ester looked puzzled, and then: “Did you hear that, kitty? You’re going to have some nice birds this Sunday.”
Ester looked at Conrad again. “Do you know anything about feeding cats?”
“Ester,” Harold exclaimed, “of course he does! He has a whole book on cat food.”
“You have? Well, some day when I have time, you’ll have to tell me all about it.—Come on, kitty. It’s time we went to bed . . .”
Very diffidently Harold asked whether he might stay a few minutes and watch Conrad work. Conrad replied that he was nearly through, and as he put the finishing touches on the crown he explained what he was doing. Harold was most interested.
At last Conrad put the roast away, and then Harold said he had something he wanted to ask him: a week from Saturday the employees at the mill were going on their annual red-bird hunt. In the evening they would have an outdoor feast. Charles, the cook they had hired for the past few years, had recently been made chef at the Prominence Inn and could not be spared. Brogg had been telling everybody that he would be the cook on red-bird night—that the Hills would be forced to come to him. But Brogg always got into fights when he drank—and so, would Conrad be willing to take Charles’s place? He would be recompensed handsomely.
Conrad said he had no objections. “How do the men like their red-birds?”
Harold described, vaguely, how the birds were usually prepared, but said Conrad would have a free hand.
“I will be in complete charge of all preparations?”
“Yes.”
The following Tuesday Conrad went to his room at the Shepard’s Inn. The boxes from the city had arrived and his clothes
“Who were those men?” Maxfield asked when Conrad came back into the kitchen. “I heard what the Vales said last night at dinner,” he continued when Conrad ignored his question, “and if Brogg ever finds out that you hired poachers to get fish from his lakes . . .”
Conrad cut him short: “What did Mrs. Hill say about my accounts?”
“I didn’t show them to her. I decided to wait until you have been here two weeks. That way the picture will be more reliable.—But let me warn you, Brogg is a bad man to have for an enemy . . .”
“Do you know,” Conrad broke in again, “there is not a complete set of china or glassware in this house? I’ve seen Betsy break seven plates, four glasses and two cups. Even Eggy hasn’t broken that many. Is it the butler’s or the housekeeper’s responsibility to see that a decent serving set exists? And I don’t mean perfect, just decent. It is impossible to entertain with our mutilated remains.”
Slowly the old butler’s neck and face turned red. “Whoever’s responsibility it is,” he replied in a trembling voice, “it is not yours.”
The two men glared at each other, and then Maxfield turned and stalked out, his lips still trembling.
“Mind your ulcers,” Conrad called after him.
After dinner Conrad was in the kitchen, shaping a crown roast for next day’s meal, when he heard a scratching at the door. He opened it, and a large cream-colored cat streaked in from the dining room and began sniffing around the legs of the worktable.
Conrad was just contemplating chucking it out the back door when a quick rap sounded and Ester walked in, followed by her brother a few steps behind.
“I was right,” she said; “there’s Queen Bee III.” She went over and picked up the cat. “Naughty, naughty kitty,” she intoned, stroking it.
“I hope we haven’t disturbed you,” Harold apologized.
Conrad resumed his labors.
“You made those delicious mice, didn’t you?” Ester said, seeming to notice Conrad for the first time. It sounded as if she had eaten the mice herself. “Will you make some more—this Sunday?”
“No.”
Ester frowned. “No?” she repeated.
“I’m going to make some birds.”
“Oh!”
For a moment Ester looked puzzled, and then: “Did you hear that, kitty? You’re going to have some nice birds this Sunday.”
Ester looked at Conrad again. “Do you know anything about feeding cats?”
“Ester,” Harold exclaimed, “of course he does! He has a whole book on cat food.”
“You have? Well, some day when I have time, you’ll have to tell me all about it.—Come on, kitty. It’s time we went to bed . . .”
Very diffidently Harold asked whether he might stay a few minutes and watch Conrad work. Conrad replied that he was nearly through, and as he put the finishing touches on the crown he explained what he was doing. Harold was most interested.
At last Conrad put the roast away, and then Harold said he had something he wanted to ask him: a week from Saturday the employees at the mill were going on their annual red-bird hunt. In the evening they would have an outdoor feast. Charles, the cook they had hired for the past few years, had recently been made chef at the Prominence Inn and could not be spared. Brogg had been telling everybody that he would be the cook on red-bird night—that the Hills would be forced to come to him. But Brogg always got into fights when he drank—and so, would Conrad be willing to take Charles’s place? He would be recompensed handsomely.
Conrad said he had no objections. “How do the men like their red-birds?”
Harold described, vaguely, how the birds were usually prepared, but said Conrad would have a free hand.
“I will be in complete charge of all preparations?”
“Yes.”
The following Tuesday Conrad went to his room at the Shepard’s Inn. The boxes from the city had arrived and his clothes
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