It was with a thrill of delight that I heard him add, "However,
I want a fag, and I dare say I can take you. Any sock with you?"
"Oh, yes, Leo," said I, hastily; "a big hamper. And there are two
cakes, and a pigeon pie, and lots of jam, and some macaroons and
turnovers, and two bottles of raspberry vinegar."
"My name's Damer," said Leo. "Can you cook?"
"Not yet, Damer," said I, hoping that my answer conveyed my
willingness to learn. For I was quite prepared for all the duties of
fag life from Mr. Clerke's descriptions. And I was prepared to perform
them, pending the time when I should have a fag of my own.
I must do Leo justice. His tyranny was merciful. I was soon expert in
preparing his breakfast. I used to fetch him hot dishes from the shop.
My own cooking was not good, and I made, so he said, the most
execrable coffee, which led him to fling the contents of the pot at me
one morning, ruining my shirt, trickling hot and wet down my body
under my clothes, and giving me infinite trouble in cleaning his
carpet. (As to _his_ coffee, and the salad dressing he made, and his
cooking generally, when he chose to do it, I have never met with
anything like it since.
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