If you have forgotten the
taste of real food, I can give you a dinner that'll jog your
memory."
"Oh, really," protested Sam. "You're awfully good, but I couldn't
think of it. I----"
"You needn't be afraid. I'm not letting you in for anything. I
may be homelier than an English suffragette, and I know my lines
are all bumps, but there's one thing you can't take away from me,
and that's my cooking hand. I can cook, boy, in a way to make
your mother's Sunday dinner, with company expected look like Mrs.
Newly-wed's first attempt at `riz' biscuits. And I don't mean any
disrespect to your mother when I say it. I'm going to have
noodle-soup, and fried chicken, and hot biscuits, and creamed
beans from our own garden, and strawberry shortcake with
real----"
"Hush!" shouted Sam. "If I ain't there, you'll know that I passed
away during the night, and you can telephone the clerk to break
in my door."
The Grim Reaper spared him, and Sam came, and was introduced to
the family, and ate. He put himself in a class with Dr. Johnson,
and Ben Brust, and Gargantua, only that his table manners were
better. He almost forgot to talk during the soup, and he came
back three times for chicken, and by the time the strawberry
shortcake was half consumed he was looking at Pearlie with a sort
of awe in his eyes.
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