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It
made
our
mouths
water
to
hear
him
talk
about
the
things
,
and
we
handed
him
out
the
stove
and
the
frying-pan
and
all
the
eggs
that
had
not
smashed
and
gone
over
everything
in
the
hamper
,
and
begged
him
to
begin
.
He
had
some
trouble
in
breaking
the
eggs
--
or
rather
not
so
much
trouble
in
breaking
them
exactly
as
in
getting
them
into
the
frying-pan
when
broken
,
and
keeping
them
off
his
trousers
,
and
preventing
them
from
running
up
his
sleeve
;
but
he
fixed
some
half-a-dozen
into
the
pan
at
last
,
and
then
squatted
down
by
the
side
of
the
stove
and
chivied
them
about
with
a
fork
.
It
seemed
harassing
work
,
so
far
as
George
and
I
could
judge
.
Whenever
he
went
near
the
pan
he
burned
himself
,
and
then
he
would
drop
everything
and
dance
round
the
stove
,
flicking
his
fingers
about
and
cursing
the
things
.
Indeed
,
every
time
George
and
I
looked
round
at
him
he
was
sure
to
be
performing
this
feat
.
We
thought
at
first
that
it
was
a
necessary
part
of
the
culinary
arrangements
.
We
did
not
know
what
scrambled
eggs
were
,
and
we
fancied
that
it
must
be
some
Red
Indian
or
Sandwich
Islands
sort
of
dish
that
required
dances
and
incantations
for
its
proper
cooking
.
Montmorency
went
and
put
his
nose
over
it
once
,
and
the
fat
spluttered
up
and
scalded
him
,
and
then
he
began
dancing
and
cursing
.
Altogether
it
was
one
of
the
most
interesting
and
exciting
operations
I
have
ever
witnessed
.
George
and
I
were
both
quite
sorry
when
it
was
over
.
The
result
was
not
altogether
the
success
that
Harris
had
anticipated
.
There
seemed
so
little
to
show
for
the
business
.
Six
eggs
had
gone
into
the
frying-pan
,
and
all
that
came
out
was
a
teaspoonful
of
burnt
and
unappetizing
looking
mess
.
Harris
said
it
was
the
fault
of
the
frying-pan
,
and
thought
it
would
have
gone
better
if
we
had
had
a
fish-kettle
and
a
gas-stove
;
and
we
decided
not
to
attempt
the
dish
again
until
we
had
those
aids
to
housekeeping
by
us
.
The
sun
had
got
more
powerful
by
the
time
we
had
finished
breakfast
,
and
the
wind
had
dropped
,
and
it
was
as
lovely
a
morning
as
one
could
desire
.
Little
was
in
sight
to
remind
us
of
the
nineteenth
century
;
and
,
as
we
looked
out
upon
the
river
in
the
morning
sunlight
,
we
could
almost
fancy
that
the
centuries
between
us
and
that
ever-to-be-famous
June
morning
of
1215
had
been
drawn
aside
,
and
that
we
,
English
yeomen
's
sons
in
homespun
cloth
,
with
dirk
at
belt
,
were
waiting
there
to
witness
the
writing
of
that
stupendous
page
of
history
,
the
meaning
whereof
was
to
be
translated
to
the
common
people
some
four
hundred
and
odd
years
later
by
one
Oliver
Cromwell
,
who
had
deeply
studied
it
.
It
is
a
fine
summer
morning
--
sunny
,
soft
,
and
still
.
But
through
the
air
there
runs
a
thrill
of
coming
stir
.
King
John
has
slept
at
Duncroft
Hall
,
and
all
the
day
before
the
little
town
of
Staines
has
echoed
to
the
clang
of
armed
men
,
and
the
clatter
of
great
horses
over
its
rough
stones
,
and
the
shouts
of
captains
,
and
the
grim
oaths
and
surly
jests
of
bearded
bowmen
,
billmen
,
pikemen
,
and
strange-speaking
foreign
spearmen
.
Gay-cloaked
companies
of
knights
and
squires
have
ridden
in
,
all
travel-stained
and
dusty
.
And
all
the
evening
long
the
timid
townsmen
's
doors
have
had
to
be
quick
opened
to
let
in
rough
groups
of
soldiers
,
for
whom
there
must
be
found
both
board
and
lodging
,
and
the
best
of
both
,
or
woe
betide
the
house
and
all
within
;
for
the
sword
is
judge
and
jury
,
plaintiff
and
executioner
,
in
these
tempestuous
times
,
and
pays
for
what
it
takes
by
sparing
those
from
whom
it
takes
it
,
if
it
pleases
it
to
do
so
.
