On through a vista of boughs and
mistletoe came the triumphs--how glad we were the way had been made more
worthy of their progress--the lubras, of course, were with them, but we
had eyes only for the triumphs: Those pullets all a-row with plump brown
breasts bursting with impatience to reveal the snowy flesh within;
marching behind them that great sizzling "haunch" of veal, taxing Rosy's
strength to the utmost; then Mine Host's crisply crumbed ham trudging
along, and filling Bertie's Nellie with delight, with its tightly bunched
little wreath of mistletoe usurping the place of the orthodox paper
frill; behind again vegetable dishes two abreast, borne by the lesser
lights of the staff (lids off, of course: none of our glory was to be
hidden under covers); tailing along with the rejected and gravy boats
came laden soup-plates to eke out the supply of vegetable dishes; and,
last of all, that creamy delight of bread sauce, borne sedately and
demurely by Bett-Bett.
As the triumphs ranged themselves into a semi-circle at the head of the
table, our first impulse was to cheer, but obeying a second impulse we
did something infinitely better, for, as Cheon relieved his grinning
waitresses, we assured him collectively, and individually, and repeatedly
that never had any one seen anything in Pine Creek so glorious as even
the dimmest shadow of this feast; and as we reiterated our assurance, I
doubt if any man in all the British Empire was prouder or more justified
in his pride than our Cheon.
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