Wee Johnnie Paterson, & other humorous sketches — Story, Setting & Ideas

avidson had not said anything about tea.

"There's cold meat in the pantry, and some tongue and sausages, and I'll leave word at the dairy about the cream. Oh! and the coffee is in a tin on the top of the kitchen fireplace; put in two tablespoonfuls, and boil a breakfast-cup of milk. You'll get clean underclothing in the second drawer of the wardrobe, and shirts in the drawer above, and the collars in the middle drawer of the dressing-table."

There were several more injunctions thrown away on me, for my mind was on the cooking of a steak, and I fancied I could smell fried onions.

When I came home the first night I tried to persuade myself that I rather liked the hollow, echoing sound of my footsteps in the lobby. The house had a dismal appearance; the furniture was rolled up in sheets. However, I had the consolation of being able to smoke in rooms hitherto prohibited. I could not hurt the curtains,--they were down; and I could not expectorate on the carpet,--it was up; but I could put my feet on the mantelpiece,--it was left: so were the marks of my boots. I tried to read, but the stillness of the house was oppressive, so I went to the club to get some one to speak to.

When I returned, the house seemed more deserted than before. I wasn't afraid to sleep in the house by myself, but, just for the fun of the thing, I looked under the beds, but there was no one there, as of course I knew.

I intended rising an hour earlier than usual to make breakfast, and was wakened by the bell ringing, but fell asleep. I think it was the bell which wakened me again, and I rose and, after dressing, started to light the fire. It was not till after considerable rummaging that I found the firewood, and it was a good while longer before I could get it to burn. I must have used at least half a dozen newspapers before the wood took fire; and as I had not time to wait on the coal burning, I used several bundles of sticks. The coffee wasn't a success. I had put in three times as much water as was necessary, and it was the colour of beer. I couldn't find the milk,--at least not then; but I found it when I was hurrying out, knocking it over with my foot. It had been laid at the door with the morning paper on the top of it, and I left a stream meandering down the steps.

On my way along the street I fancied I was being looked at more than was necessary, and found, by a mirror in a shop window, that my face was peculiarly tattooed with black marks through using my hands for a handkerchief while sweating over the fire.

My great success--the steak--was yet to come off. I would have it for supper, and went into a butcher's shop for it on the way home. I had never been in a butcher's before, and did not know what to ask for. I said, "A piece of beef, please."

"Yes, sir; where off, sir?"

I am not up in the anatomy of the cow, so I said, "Oh! the place you make steaks of."

"Yes, sir; how much shall I give you, sir?"

A waiter would have known, and gone off shouting "Steak one," but I had to indicate the size with my hands. I didn't like the way he handled the meat,--he did not use a fork.

"Can I send it for you, sir?"

"Oh no," I said, "I'll take it with me."

He wrapped it in a piece of old newspaper, and I nearly let it drop when I got it in my hand, it was so damp and flabby, like carrying a frog by the middle. There was no use trying to persuade myself that people would think it was a bunch of flowers; it was hanging limp down each side of my hand, and I had not gone far till the blood oozed through the paper. I felt like a cannibal. Of course the fire was to light again; and as I did not like the kitchen range, I lit the dining-room fire.