A fourfold sigh of
relief heralded its return to the pan.
"Mother always--" began the eldest boy.
Mr. Porter took his scorched fingers out of his mouth and smacked the
critic's head.
The dinner was not a success. Portions of half-cooked sausages returned
to the pan, and coming back in the guise of cinders failed to find their
rightful owners.
"Last time we had sausages," said the eight-year-old Muriel, "they melted
in your mouth." Mr. Porter glowered at her.
"Instead of in the fire," said the eldest boy, with a mournful snigger.
"If I get up to you, my lad," said the harassed Mr. Porter, "you'll know
it! Pity you don't keep your sharpness for your lessons! Wot country is
Africa in?"
"Why, Africa's a continent!" said the startled youth.
"Jes so," said his father; "but wot I'm asking you is: wot country is it
in?"
"Asia," said the reckless one, with a side-glance at Muriel.
"And why couldn't you say so before?" demanded Mr. Porter, sternly.
"Now, you go to the sink and give yourself a thorough good wash.
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