The Cook Read Online Free PDF Page A

greengrocers and the old, bearded provisioner of canned goods discovered Conrad to be a sharp and imperious shopper. Of course his accounts reflected this, and when Maxfield went over them that first Sunday morning he was openly astounded.
    “When does Mrs. Hill go over the accounts?” Conrad asked.
    “This afternoon—Mrs. Hill, Mrs. Wigton and I.” The old butler sighed. “Sunday is not a day of rest around here, except for Ester. Mr. Hill and Harold go to the mill and examine those accounts. ‘Sunday afternoon,’ as Mr. and Mrs. Hill always say, ‘is accounting time.’ ”
    “And Betsy and Rudolph?”
    “They polish silver.”
    “And Eggy?”
    “Eggy is yours. The cook usually has him clean the stove.”
    “The stove is already clean.—And the cook?”
    Maxfield smiled wanly.
    “Theoretically the cook is free Sunday afternoon. But he must be available—in case there are any questions about his accounts.”
    Conrad, who had been busy stuffing a goose, looked around. “ Must , did you say?”
    Maxfield hesitated, and then admitted that perhaps should would be a better word.
    “I suspect won’t would be the best,” Conrad rejoined, resuming his work on the stuffing. Before Maxfield could reply Betsy came in, looking put upon and muttering something about Miss Ester’s cats.
    It was her duty to open the cans of cat food and empty the contents into three dishes, then take the dishes up to the cats in Ester’s room. It was the one complaint she had about her job.
    “. . . those cats!” she grumbled, getting the cans from the bottom of the cupboard. “They’re fat and lazy, and their hair gets over everything. I don’t see why I have to feed them. I’d like to put them in a bag and put some rocks in the bag and tie up the end with some string and throw them in Blue Lake. That’s where they belong. They’re good for nothing. They don’t even play.”
    The last time Conrad had gone shopping he had got some fish heads. He had made stock from these and mixed it with dough, which he then worked into small mice.
    When Betsy had finished dumping the canned cat food into the dishes, Conrad pointed to several ramekins which contained the mice swimming in a light cream sauce, and told her they were also for the cats and that she should take them with her. Betsy was very surprised at the sight of the mice, and as if they were something for her to play with, she started to touch one. Conrad sharply ordered her to keep her fingers off.
    “Are the cats supposed to eat them?” she inquired timidly, still staring at the little mice.
    “Just carry them upstairs. If your mistress says anything, tell her they’re the cats’ special Sunday dinner.—On Sunday there is special food for all.”
    After Betsy had left, Maxfield murmured that he doubted whether Miss Ester would let the cats eat what Conrad had made. “She never lets them eat anything from the kitchen.”
    “She will make an exception this time,” Conrad said as he put the goose in the oven. “The cats will scratch her to shreds if she tries to take those mice away.”
    Sunday dinner was served precisely at 1 : 45 , with Conrad himself carrying the goose. Betsy followed him with the vegetables.
    Sighs of appreciation rose from the family and they also looked pleased with the vision of their cook, all in white and more than seven feet tall in his chef’s hat. Out of the corner of his eye Conrad saw Ester. She was blond and beautiful. But he didn’t look directly at her, so he couldn’t tell whether she had sighed at the sight of the glistening brown goose with its colorful garnishings.
    Conrad had learned from Maxfield that Mr. Hill did not carve well and did not relish the chore; therefore he had started the carving himself. But he had done this so carefully and with such a thin knife that the slicing could not be detected unless one got very close to the goose and looked for it.
    Conrad set the goose in front of Mr. Hill, who sat at the head of