Part 19 (1/2)

Afterward--” She ended with the all-expressive shrug.

Evidently madame conceded the point, for without further comment she led the way to the kitchen and presented the bill of fare for dinner.

”'For twelve,'” read Patsy. ”And to-morrow is Sunday. Ah, Providence is good to madame, _mais-oui?_”

But madame's thoughts were on more practical matters. ”Your wages?”

”One hundred francs a week, and the kitchen to myself. I, too, have a temper, madame.” Patsy gave a quick toss to her head, while her eyes snapped.

That night the week-end guests at Quality House sat over their coffee, volubly commenting on the rare excellence of their dinner and the good fortune of their hostess in her possession of such a cook.

Madame kept her own counsel and blessed Providence; but she did not allow that good fortune to escape with her better judgment--or anything else. She ordered the butler, before retiring, to count the silver and lock it in her dressing-room; this was to be done every night--as long as the new cook remained.

And the new cook? Her work despatched, and her kitchen to herself, she was free to get dinner for one more of madame's guests.

”Faith! he'd die of a black fit if he ever knew he was a guest of Quality House--and she'd die of another if she found out whom she was entertaining. But, glory be to Peter! what neither of them knows won't hurt them.” And Patsy, un.o.bserved, opened the back door and retraced the road to the deserted stable with a full basket and a glad heart.

She found the tinker under some trees at the back, smoking a disreputable cuddy pipe with a worse accompaniment of tobacco. When he saw her he removed it apologetically.

”It smells horrible, I know. I found it, forgotten, on a ledge of the stable, but it keeps a chap from remembering that he is hungry.”

”Poor lad!” Patsy knelt on the ground beside him and opened her basket. ”Put your nose into that, just. 'Tis a nine-course dinner and every bit of the best. Faith! 'tis lucky I was found on a Brittany rose-bush instead of one in Heidelberg, Birmingham, or Philadelphia; and if ye can't be born with gold in your mouth the next best thing is a mixing-spoon.”

”Meaning?” queried the tinker.

”Meaning--that there's many a poor soul who goes hungry through life because she is wanting the knowledge of how to mix what's already under her nose.”

The tinker looked suspiciously from the contents of the basket to Patsy, kneeling beside it, and he dropped into a shameless mimicry of her brogue. ”Aye, but how did she come by--what's under her nose?

Here's a dinner for a king's son.”

”Well, I'll be letting ye play the king's son instead of the fool to-night, just, if ye'll give over asking any more questions and eat.”

”But”--he sniffed the plate she had handed him with added suspicion--”roast duck and sherry sauce! Honest, now--have ye been begging?”

”No--nor stealing--nor, by the same token, have I murdered any one to get the dinner from him.” There was fine sarcasm in her voice as she returned the tinker's searching look.

”Then where did it come from? I'll not eat a mouthful until I get an honest answer.” The tinker put the plate down beside him and folded his arms.

Patsy snorted with exasperation. ”Was I ever saying ye could play the king's son? Faith! ye'll never play anything but the fool--first and last.” Her voice suddenly took on a more coaxing tone; she was thinking of that good dinner growing cold--spoiled by the man's ridiculous curiosity. ”I'll tell ye what--if ye'll agree to begin eating, I'll agree to begin telling ye about it--and we'll both agree not to stop till we get to the end. But Holy Saint Martin! who ever heard of a man before letting his conscience in ahead of his hunger!”

The bargain was made; and while the tinker devoured one plateful after another with a ravenous haste that almost discredited his previous restraint, Patsy spun a fanciful tale of having found a cluricaun under a quicken-tree. With great elaboration and seeming regard for the truth, she explained his magical qualities, and how--if you were clever enough to possess yourself of his cap--you could get almost anything from him.

”I held his cap firmly with the one hand and him by the scruff of the neck with the other; and says I to him, 'Little man, ye'll not be getting this back till ye've fetched me a dinner fit for a tinker.'

'Well, and good,' says he, 'but ye can't find that this side of the King's Hotel, Dublin; and that will take time.' 'Take the time,' says I, 'but get the dinner.' And from that minute till the present I've been waiting under that quicken-tree for him to make the trip there and back.”

Patsy finished, and the two of them smiled at each other with rare good humor out under the June stars. Only the tinker's smile was skeptical.

”So--ye are not believing me--” Patsy shammed a solemn, grieved look.