To My Knock The Baker Himself Came
Out - A Mild-Looking, Flabby-Faced Man, With His Mouth Full, In
A Very Loose Suit Of Pyjama-Like Garments Of A Bluish Floury
Colour.
I told him my story, and he listened, swallowing his
mouthful, then cast his eyes down and rubbed his chin, which
had a small tuft of hairs growing on it, and finally said, "I
don't know.
I must ask my wife. But come in and have a cup
of tea - we're just having a cup ourselves, and perhaps you'd
like one."
I could have told him that I should like a dozen cups and a
great many slices of bread-and-butter, if there was nothing
else more substantial to be had. However, I only said, "Thank
you," and followed him in to where his wife, a nice-looking
woman, with black hair and olive face, was seated behind the
teapot. Imagine my surprise when I found that besides tea
there was a big hot repast on the table - a ham, a roast fowl,
potatoes and cabbage, a rice pudding, a dish of stewed fruit,
bread-and-butter, and other things.
"You call this a cup of tea!" I exclaimed delightedly. The
woman laughed, and he explained in an apologetic way that he
had formerly suffered grievously from indigestion, so that for
many years his life was a burden to him, until he discovered
that if he took one big meal a day, after the work was over,
he could keep perfectly well.
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