our minutes, and
the pan had it all its own way, there was some creaking of the boards as
the naturalist stumped about, and when he did speak it was evident that
he thought it wise to change the subject. And it was the inner man who
now spoke--

"Our tea-supper nearly ready, Mrs Champernowne?"

"Oh yes, sir. The second rasher's about done. How many eggs shall I
cook?"

"Oh, one, or perhaps two, for me," shouted Uncle Paul.

"Oh, I say!" muttered Rodd.

"Better cook eight or ten for my nephew," cried the doctor dryly.
"He'll eat like a young wolf."

"What a shame!" muttered Rodd. "I'll serve him out for this."

"Fried, of course, sir?" came from the kitchen.

"Murder, woman, no!" roared Uncle Paul. "Fry! That is wild
west-country ignorance, madam! Are you not aware, madam, that the
action of boiling fat upon albumen is to produce a coagulate leathery
mass of tough indigestible matter inimical to the tender sensitive
lining of the most important organ of the human frame, lying as it does
without assimilation or absorption upon the epigastric region, and
producing an irritation that may require medical treatment to allay?"

"Dear, dear, dear, dear me, no, sir! Really, you quite fluster me with
all those long words. Who ever heard that fried ham and eggs were bad
for anybody?"

"Then I tell you now, madam," shouted the doctor, "that--"

"Don't you take any notice, Mrs Champernowne," shouted Rodd. "It's
only uncle's fun."

"Wuff!" went Uncle Paul, with a snap like that of an angry dog. "Wuff!"

"Fried, please, Mrs Champernowne; four for uncle and three for me."

"Umph!" grunted the doctor, and a few minutes later he and his nephew,
hunger-sharpened and weary-legged, were seated facing one another in the
widow's pleasant little parlour, hard at work, and risking all the
direful symptoms upon which the elder had discoursed, and thoroughly
enjoying hearty draughts of Mrs Champernowne's fragrant tea.

There was silence in the kitchen, following the final hissings and
odours emitted by the hard-worked pan, but a great deal of business went
on in the little parlour, the first words that were spoken being by
Uncle Paul, who growled out--

"Here, I suppose you had better tell the old lady to put on another
rasher of ham to fry."

"For you, uncle?" said Rodd archly.

"No, sir, for you. You traitorous young dog, leaving all those
beautiful trout up on the moor to be devoured by the enemies of your
c