The Cook (13 page)

31

Conrad’s doubts about Mrs. Wigton were well founded: Mrs. Hill could make no progress with her; she simply refused to have anything to do with setting a table. “It’s not that I consider it beneath me,” she declared firmly to Mrs. Hill; “it’s just that I’m supposed to be a housekeeper—I’m paid to be a housekeeper—and setting a table is not part of a housekeeper’s duties.”

And that, for all practical purposes, was that, because, as Mrs. Hill reported to Conrad: “. . . she said I could fire her if I wanted to. But she wouldn’t do Betsy’s work.”

Conrad replied, “We just might do that too.”

When Conrad saw the figure for Daphne at the regular Monday weighing session, he told her he would start giving her richer food. “We don’t want you to lose any more. If you do, your new clothes won’t fit you when they come.”

Daphne blushed at this reference to her wedding trousseau.

Mr. and Mrs. Hill recorded slightly lower figures despite the fact that they had extra clothes on: Mrs. Hill had on a full apron and Mr. Hill was wearing a new black jacket with brass buttons.

After the weighing, Mrs. Hill followed Conrad into the kitchen. “Mrs. Hill,” Conrad said, “I think we should have a trial run with the Crown Gourmet Setting this Thursday or Friday.—You are sure Mrs. Wigton can’t be persuaded?”

Mrs. Hill said she was positive.

“All right, that’s settled. Then you’re going to have to do it; do you think you can manage it?”

A happy smile lit up Mrs. Hill’s face. “I was afraid you were going to say that you would do it yourself, Conrad.”

Tuesday night Conrad dined in solitary splendor at the Prominence Inn, and then he went to Shepard’s. There were quite a few people there, and in no time at all his table had more chairs pulled up around it than it could comfortably accommodate.

“I hear,” said Lem, one of the journeyman carpenters at the mill, “that Mr. Hill never comes to the mill any more. They say Mr. Renfrew does all the work now and makes all the important decisions.”

The Hills, of course, being one of the two great families, were always interesting to talk about, and everyone looked to Conrad.

“Mr. Renfrew always did make all the decisions,” someone declared before Conrad could answer. “The way I heard it, Mr. Hill just came every day and nosed about, getting in the way . . .”

Conrad confirmed what Lem had been told.

“Yes,” someone else said, “it’s Dr. Law’s orders. He went over to the Hill mansion a couple of weeks ago and said Mr. Hill just had to take it easy. Been pushing himself too hard—he’s not the young man he used to be.”

Conrad said it wasn’t true. “Dr. Law did not say that. Or if he did, he’s mistaken. Mr. Hill is in excellent health—haven’t any of you seen how he’s lost all that fat? He is just bored with mill work, that’s all. From now on he will doubtless stay at home more and more, and hand over the actual operation of the mill to Mr. Renfrew—the way the old Cobb family handed over the reins to the Hills and Vales in the first place. History has a way of repeating itself.”

Yes, that’s true—history does repeat itself, several voices agreed.

“Yes, just look at Ester Hill,” said the first man.

“What do you mean?”

“Why, when I saw her and her mother last week,” the man answered, “I almost didn’t recognize either one of them—you don’t see them much any more, you know. Mrs. Hill looked just as trim and neat as a maid—she’s really lost weight. And the daughter was just the opposite. Why, Ester Hill is almost as fat as Daphne Vale used to be.”

Another man confirmed this, adding, “And I hear tell that Lance Brown is going with a little dairymaid now, and no longer sees the Hill girl.”

“I’ve heard the same thing,” said a fourth. “I’ve even heard that Lance Brown and the girl are secretly married.”

“Well, he certainly doesn’t come to the mansion any more,” Conrad admitted.

“I don’t blame him!” said Lem.

All at once everyone was laughing. The table became so boisterous that when more drinks were wanted, Conrad had to call to Nell three times before she heard him.

32

By the time Conrad got back to the Hill mansion it was after three in the morning. He didn’t go inside at once. The moon was full and almost bright enough to read by. In the distance the battlements of the Prominence stood out against the silver-black sky. At irregular intervals below the battlements, opaque black shapes gleamed—windows, from which no light ever came, from which no human sounds were emitted, from which no one ever looked . . .

Before retiring for the night he stopped in the kitchen. It was neat as a pin. Everything had been washed and put away. Nothing seemed out of place. Just the way he liked to see a kitchen at the end of the day’s cooking, and he guessed that Mr. and Mrs. Hill had helped Harold clean everything up.

Conrad left a note for Harold, telling him to go ahead and fix and serve breakfast. He also wrote out a short menu for him.

Conrad was awake until almost dawn. He had arranged his great long bed so that he could lie on his side and see the Prominence, and until he fell asleep he lay there staring at it . . .

Betsy was let go the following morning while Conrad was still in bed. She had—as Mrs. Hill explained when Conrad appeared—broken one dish too many.

“The wench should have been dismissed months ago,” Conrad declared. “There is no place for the likes of her in this establishment.”

Conrad took the cup of coffee Mrs. Hill had poured him and walked over to Harold. “How did it go last night?”

Harold replied that it had been a “thrilling experience to be in charge of the kitchen.” He added that of course he had only served Daphne what Conrad had already prepared.

After a bit Mr. Hill came into the kitchen. He was wearing his black jacket with the gold buttons. Mrs. Hill told him that Conrad had approved of her dismissal of Betsy.

“Now, about this evening,” Conrad began. “The Vales are coming. You, of course, will serve the drinks.”

Mr. Hill nodded.

“And you will set the table.”

Mrs. Hill smiled and nodded.

“Harold will serve the food. Perhaps tomorrow night, Mrs. Hill, you can serve the food, as well as set the table. It is better not to begin serving when there are guests. Harold has had some experience.—Do you think we should have a trial run of the Crown Gourmet Setting tomorrow night or would you rather serve your first meal with the old dishes, and then on Friday night, having had one experience of serving dinner, try the Crown Setting? Naturally, you will have served two lunches by tomorrow night . . .”

Mrs. Hill and Harold answered at the same time that they thought it would be better to wait till Friday night to try the Crown Gourmet Table Setting. “I shall have had more experience by then,” Mrs. Hill explained, echoing Conrad’s words.

“Fine. Then it’s settled—Friday night. Harold, you and I have some shopping to do. If we hurry, we can be back in time to fix lunch by one.”

Conrad stood up, and as Mrs. Hill turned to leave he asked her whether Mrs. Wigton had been affected in any way by seeing her set the table on Monday. Mrs. Hill shook her head: not in the least. “And I’m not going to ask her again,” she declared. “I would much rather do it myself. And if Mrs. Wigton doesn’t stop suggesting certain things . . .”

“Yes,” Conrad answered, “she had better.—Has she heard about Betsy yet?”

Mrs. Hill said she didn’t know, but that she supposed Betsy had run and told her.

“Well, I hope dear Mrs. Wigton draws the correct conclusions,” Conrad said.

The problem of who would serve Mrs. Wigton her meals, now that Betsy was gone, was settled by the time Conrad and Harold returned from their shopping expedition to Cobb.

The table for lunch was set and Mrs. Hill was waiting in the dining room, looking very proud of herself. She had on a new white apron, and her heavy head of hair was securely fastened in the back with a broad ribbon.

It was immediately evident that her expression of triumph was due to something other than just the table settings, and after Conrad had glanced at them and nodded his satisfaction, she said, “Guess what?”

Conrad arched a quizzical brow.

“Mrs. Wigton,” she declared, relishing each syllable, “has just quit. Not more than fifteen minutes ago . . .”

“This is the way you carry a tray . . . this is the way you fold the napkin . . . this is the way you set a plate . . . this is the way you present the serving platter . . . Now, come into the dining room and I’ll show you how to set down the tray on the sideboard . . . how to exchange plates . . . how to replace a knife . . .”

Mrs. Hill’s instruction was extremely intensive. Before lunchtime, and all that afternoon, and all the following morning and afternoon, Conrad taught her as much of the art and as many of the tricks of serving as she could conceivably assimilate in that short period of time. She was a willing and apt student, and when it came time to serve dinner Thursday night Conrad assured her—because she was a little nervous—that she would acquit herself creditably. And it was true: except for a few minor confusions involving the entremets, dinner came off without a hitch. Mrs. Hill was extremely pleased.

Friday morning Conrad slept late again; he had gone to Cobb after dinner to have a few glasses of beer at the Shepard’s Inn and to talk and listen to the local gossip.

Harold and Mr. and Mrs. Hill were in the kitchen when Conrad came down, and as soon as he appeared the three of them chorused:

“Happy Birthday, Conrad!”

He smiled and thanked them, saying quietly, “I’m glad you reminded me. I had forgotten.”

Mr. Hill pulled Conrad’s high stool over to the side, and Mrs. Hill served him his coffee and his favorite semisweet rolls, and then, as Conrad sipped his coffee and began to dip the bread in it, Harold said, “Conrad, today there will be nothing for you to do. It is your birthday, and we will take care of everything in the house. This evening—I would feel highly honored if you would let me cook dinner for you . . .”

Harold started to say something else, but became covered in confusion and broke off.

Conrad dipped another piece of bread in his coffee and answered matter-of-factly that he would be pleased to have Harold cook for him. Harold and Mrs. Hill sighed with relief.

Conrad started for Cobb about an hour later. Just before he left he sought out Mrs. Hill and told her that he had heard last night from a reliable source that Lance Brown was secretly married to a dairymaid.

Mrs. Hill was overjoyed.

“Should I tell Ester?” she asked.

Conrad replied that she should tell her immediately.

Conrad returned from Cobb carrying a small suitcase. Dinner was at nine. When he appeared downstairs, dressed for the occasion, he caused a sensation: could this be Conrad the cook?

Mr. Hill indicated the chair at the head of the table.

The new dinnerware was on the table. The setting was the Crown Gourmet Table Setting Number Two.

Mr. Hill poured Conrad a glass of dry sherry.

Conrad sipped it, ran his tongue over his lips, and nodded his approval.

Mr. Hill, standing ram-rod straight beside the chair, seemed a little relieved, though it was difficult to be sure because his expression was so fixed. The gold buttons on his black jacket looked as if they had just been polished.

“Mrs. Hill,” said Mr. Hill quietly, “asked me to tell you that Daphne will not be dining tonight. She is indisposed.”

Conrad nodded.

“And the cook wishes me to tell you that he has prepared for you your birthday dinner, the one you told him about. He made it on Tuesday when you were in town, and he thought it came out all right. The second time, he thought, it would probably be even better.”

Conrad nodded but said nothing, and Mr. Hill stepped back out of sight.

Conrad sipped his sherry. When his glass was only one-quarter full he cocked a forefinger at it very unobtrusively. Mr. Hill silently stepped forward and refilled it.

The large grandfather clock at the end of the room began to toll the hour of nine. Before it had finished Ester walked slowly into the room. Mr. Hill stepped forward and drew out the chair on Conrad’s right.

Ester was huge. She was wearing a green satin gown with large red roses all over it. Conrad recognized the gown as one Daphne used to wear.

“Sherry?”

After a moment Ester seemed to nod assent, and Conrad raised a finger toward her glass. Mr. Hill stepped forward.

When they had finished their sherry, Conrad said quietly to Mr. Hill, “Any time now.”

Mr. Hill returned shortly, followed by Mrs. Hill. She was wearing a black and white uniform. Her cap was fringed with stiff lace.

With an expression of fixed concentration she approached the table.

On the small silver tray there was an assortment of . . .

PART V

33

Conrad’s birthday dinner was the first rehearsal for the coming major performance for Mr. Bayard and Monte Springhorn. The following week another rehearsal was staged when the Vales were over for dinner. Mrs. Hill explained to them what they were doing and why Conrad would be sitting at the head of the table. Mr. and Mrs. Vale—plump and jolly now—thought the whole thing was a wonderful scheme and entered happily into the spirit of the evening. Conrad was his usual charming dinner self, and combined with the transformation wrought by his evening clothes, in no time at all he had both the Vales figuratively eating out of his hand. Everyone had a wonderful time. There was only one discordant note: Daphne Vale was still indisposed and could not come down for dinner. But as if to make up for this, fat Ester made her appearance and was again seated on Conrad’s right.

At last the big day arrived. Conrad slept late that morning, and when he came down for breakfast Charles and Paul were already in the kitchen going about their duties.

Eggy was busily at work in the corner by the sink. His stool had been taken away to make more room.

“We’re trying to keep out of each other’s way,” Harold smiled, coming up to Conrad quickly and handing him a cup of coffee and a small plate of buttered sweet bread.

“Just don’t panic. There’s enough room in here for eight cooks. But each must tend strictly to his own business.”

“Yes, Conrad . . .” Harold agreed over his shoulder, continuing what he had been doing.

Just then Mrs. Hill rushed in. At the sight of Conrad she gave a quick sigh of relief. “Ah, I’m so glad you’re here! I was so afraid I’d forget something.” She reached into her apron pocket. “Here—last night I was too nervous and excited thinking about today to sleep. So I got up and made a list; I wrote down everything I’ve done and everything I’ve got to do . . . I think. Would you look at it?”

Conrad smiled and glanced at the top of the first page. It was headed: “Guest room for Mr. Monte Springhorn.” Halfway down the page was the second heading: “Guest room for Mr. Rennie Bayard.” Under each were subheadings: “Linen,” “Wardrobe,” etc.

Before Conrad could turn to the second page Mr. Hill came in, and the sight of him seemed to remind Mrs. Hill of something. She exclaimed abruptly that she would be right back and rushed out of the kitchen.

Mr. Hill was looking tense with suppressed excitement and at the same time somewhat worried, though he was trying to hide this even more than his excitement. For a few seconds he just stood there watching Conrad go over Mrs. Hill’s long list.

“Yes?” Conrad murmured, not looking up.

Mr. Hill began to finger one of his gold buttons. “Mrs. Hill wanted me to make a list too. But I think I work better if I just keep going over things in my head—that’s the way I used to do it at the mill. But there are so many things to do . . .”

“Each person has his own method.”

“But I think I know what I have to do. But—”

“Yes? But what?”

Mr. Hill continued to finger one of his buttons. Then at last he answered. “It’s not that I don’t believe . . . I mean, it’s not that I don’t think your friends . . . but, Conrad”—and with much effort he forced himself to raise his eyes to Conrad’s—“but, Conrad, do you
really
think Mr. Springhorn—and Mr. Bayard—will come to the mansion today . . . I mean, all the way out here from the City, just to have dinner at
our house
? Mr. Springhorn is such a
great
man.
Such
a great man . . .”

Mr. Hill’s voice had dropped to a murmur. He sounded almost disconsolate, and his eyes pleaded with Conrad to dispel his doubts.

“We’re always anxious,” answered Conrad quietly, “when we’re anticipating something greatly. That’s partly what it means to anticipate. And that’s part of the fun: the pitch of our anxiety is the measure of our anticipation, not of the likelihood of its fulfillment.—Mr. Springhorn and Mr. Bayard will be here between two and three this afternoon. Rest assured.”

Mr. Hill considered Conrad’s words for a moment, and then began to nod. “Well, I must admit I’m really looking forward to having Mr. Monte Springhorn here, and Mr. Bayard . . .”

Conrad patted Mr. Hill on the shoulder and said with an easygoing laugh, “You had better be careful now. And Mrs. Hill. Two o’clock is a long way off. If you don’t calm down a little, the two of you will work yourselves into such a state of nerves that you’ll be desperately hoping Monte and Rennie won’t show up. That happens, I know: at one of my first big dinner parties I caught myself making a solemn vow to eat all of the food I had prepared if only my guests would not appear. I didn’t want to see them—that’s how convinced I’d become that all of my dishes would be a failure. But of course, all the guests did come, and they ate everything set before them. The dinner could not have been a greater success—and the occasion today will be just as successful.” Conrad laughed again. “And tell Mrs. Hill what I just said: not to get too excited. Everything will work out perfectly. We have planned things down to the last—”

Mrs. Hill burst through the kitchen door. “Conrad! Conrad!” Her eyes were wide with distress. “I just examined the table-cloth again and look . . . look—right in the center—I didn’t see it before . . .”

She held up the delicately ornate table-cloth, all starched, and beautifully white. Only—in the center there was a large, solid black spot.

“What shall we do? What shall we do?” Mrs. Hill was on the verge of tears. “I just put it away last night—I don’t know how it got there. But it must be my fault. I just don’t see . . .”

Conrad took one sharp glance at the spot and then leaned back against the cupboard.

“Mrs. Hill, I was just telling Mr. Hill not to let himself get too worked up about today. The same goes for you. Otherwise you’ll be in a state of nervous incapacity by this evening—do you want Eggy to serve our guests? That would be a tragedy. But the tragedy you’re pointing to is only a spot of black candle wax, no doubt dropped by you when you put away the cloth last night. It can be scraped off in a minute.”

Mrs. Hill looked again at the spot, and then heaved a huge sigh of relief.

“You see,” Conrad continued, finishing his coffee; “we mustn’t let ourselves get too excited. Everything has been planned very carefully for today and all will go well. Our two distinguished guests are in for a treat.”

Mrs. Hill, still not fully recovered from the shock of finding the spot on the table-cloth, was able to do no more than nod weakly at Conrad’s reassurance.

Conrad stood up. “And now we must all get on with our work. Just remember, take everything in stride and don’t get too excited. That’s the rule.”

Mrs. Hill nodded again.

“And if small things go wrong, always remember: they’re small. They can be tended to.”

Everything was in order by two o’clock.

“Now we are ready,” Mrs. Hill smiled.

“Yes . . . see? I told you everything would be all right.” Conrad turned to Mr. Hill, who was rearranging once again the numerous bottles on a large serving tray. He did not look happy. “Our guests will come,” Conrad assured him.

Mr. Hill said nothing.

The three of them were in the kitchen, keeping out of the way while Harold, Charles and Paul went about their tasks.

“Perhaps,” Conrad suggested, “our cooks would like something to drink? Mr. Hill . . .”

Mr. Hill fixed three drinks, and then one for Conrad and one for Mrs. Hill.

By two-thirty Mr. Hill was looking more despondent than ever.

“I know you think they won’t come,” Conrad said. “But they have another half-hour before they’re even late.”

“Of course they’ll come,” Mrs. Hill exclaimed quickly. “Benjamin, you shouldn’t be so pessimistic. He
is
being pessimistic, isn’t he, Conrad?”

Mr. Hill muttered something inaudible.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Conrad answered offhandedly; “it is not unknown for guests to disappoint.”

Mr. Hill, who had continued to move the bottles around on the tray, looked up quickly at this flat acknowledgment of possibility. He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment there was a loud knocking at the front door. Slowly Mr. Hill closed his mouth, but he continued to stare at Conrad and didn’t move. The sound seemed to have rooted him to the floor.

The knocking, louder and quite imperious, sounded again.

“Our guests,” Conrad murmured.

“Oh, Benjamin!”

With a final tug at the back of his jacket, Mr. Hill left the kitchen.

“Oh, I do hope they find their rooms satisfactory,” Mrs. Hill said quietly, more to herself than to Conrad, who had turned to Harold. Harold had been slowly stirring a sauce, but at the sound of the knocking he had stopped, and he was looking almost pleadingly at Conrad. “Yes, Harold, by the time this evening is over you will have gratified two of the most exacting palates of the City.”

“But, Conrad, suppose . . .”

The sound of voices came from the dining room, and then the kitchen door opened and Mr. Hill reappeared. Carefully, very carefully, he drew the door closed behind him. For a moment he just stood there. Then he leaned back against the door.

His expression was blank. Indeed, it was more than blank. He looked stunned.

“Well, aren’t you going to announce the guests?” Conrad asked.

Mrs. Hill, who had been observing her husband closely, glanced nervously at Conrad. Harold, too, began to look a little concerned. He came over and stood beside Conrad.

“Benjamin?”

Mr. Hill at last collected himself, and taking a deep breath, intoned: “Mr. Monte Springhorn. Mr. Rennie Bayard. And five of Mr. Springhorn’s friends.”

Dead silence followed this announcement. And then Paul, who had been putting something in the oven, stood up and gave a low whistle.

“Five?” Charles exclaimed. “Did you say five more people?”

Everyone was staring at Mr. Hill.

“And
five
friends,” he repeated.

“Damn!” exploded Conrad loudly. “Damn Monte Springhorn and his confounded tricks! I’m going to—” He started for the kitchen door. Mr. Hill moved quickly to one side, but then Conrad stopped. In a lower voice he said, more to himself than to anyone else, “I should have expected something; I know him so well: ‘Food’ ”—and he imitated a high-pitched voice—“ ‘tastes better when prepared under stress.’ One of his ridiculous theories. Only this time he’s gone too far—Harold, bank the stoves. There will be no—”

Mrs. Hill leaned back weakly against the cupboard. “Oh, what shall we do? What shall we do?”

Conrad was staring blackly at the kitchen door. He had not completed his sentence: a roar of laughter had suddenly come from the dining room.

“There are five extra guests?” Harold seemed incapable of assimilating the information. He just stood there, looking from Conrad to Mrs. Hill, who had started crying, then to Mr. Hill. Mr. Hill was still staring straight ahead, unseeing. Charles and Paul looked stunned. They had stopped what they were doing and came over to Conrad. Only Eggy took Mr. Hill’s announcement in stride; mumbling that more people meant more dishes, he bent closer over the pile in the sink. But the others didn’t hear him, and shaking their heads, they began muttering unhappily.

“There just isn’t enough food,” said Harold.

“No, not near enough.”

“And I have only prepared two guest rooms. Oh, Conrad—”

“We won’t have enough time either. If we had more time . . .”

“If it were just one extra person it would be different. But five—”

“No one can expect us to take care of seven when we were only preparing for two,” Charles said. “I know at the Prominence Inn, when twice as many people come as—”

Mr. Hill nodded at this statement. “Yes, they will have to go to the Prominence Inn. There is no other way.”

“Oh, the Prominence Inn!” exclaimed Mrs. Hill through her tears. “When the Vales find out . . .”

But Conrad was looking sharply at Mr. Hill. “No one is going to the Prominence Inn—except Charles to pick up some things from their emergency stock. We are going to take care of our guests just as if they were all expected. There will be no panic. Mrs. Hill, start preparing additional guest rooms. Paul, get ready to go to the Vales’ for some fish . . . and possibly some extra bed linen—ask Mrs. Hill. Explain to Harold what you have cooking, and what he must do while you’re gone. Charles, you do the same. I will be back shortly to write a list of the items I want you to bring from Cobb.”

Conrad paused and gave a long, hard look to all of the faces around him. They all still looked pretty blank. Mrs. Hill, though, had stopped crying.

“As I said”—and Conrad’s lips parted in a slight smile, with just a trace of warmth—“there will be no panic. Dinner will be perfect.—And now I must welcome our guests. Mr. Hill, you will serve the first two rounds of drinks. Then you can help Mrs. Hill till I come back to the kitchen.”

Monte Springhorn was very short, very wide and very thick, so that he quite resembled a cube. His head, in contrast, was round, and it sat on the block of his torso without evidence of attachment by any length of neck. He was completely bald.

Bright, mischievous eyes sparkled at Conrad as he introduced his five friends.

“We’ve all met before,” Conrad smiled. “I’m pleased you were able to get the little party together, Monte. Did you have any trouble?”

Monte Springhorn chuckled to himself, his heavy jowls trembling like jelly. “No, no trouble at all,” he said in his shrill voice. “I simply mentioned you were having a little dinner and sought the pleasure of some City company. And having eaten at your table before—well, naturally they were delighted. Why, were you afraid Rennie and I might have to make the trip by ourselves?”

“I’m honored,” Conrad said to the others.—“Yes, I’ll admit the possibility had occurred to me.”

Springhorn chuckled again. “Yes, I suppose one never knows what to expect. The world is full of surprises.”

Conrad opened his mouth to reply but changed his mind, and smiling slightly he took Monte Springhorn by the arm, suggesting that they all sit by the fireplace.

Mr. Hill served drinks. He was the perfect stony-faced butler: he seemed to look at no one and yet at everyone at the same time. And when he wasn’t actually serving he was out of sight. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for all the shiny gold buttons against the background of black cloth, he would have melted so completely into the room’s furnishings that had one of the guests looked for him he would have looked in vain.

“Gentlemen”—Conrad raised his glass to each in turn—“I’m so glad you were able to come.—Now, what has been going on in the City? Rennie, have you had anything decent to eat since you were in Cobb last?”

The five unexpected guests, all portly gentlemen, turned pleasantly to Rennie Bayard and exclaimed almost in chorus, “Tell Conrad about your friend who is being charged with attempted poisoning. He’s just been telling us,” they explained to Conrad.

Rennie Bayard laughed. “All right, all right—” He leaned back comfortably in his chair. Mr. Hill was standing behind Conrad, and surreptitiously Conrad handed him a note—a change in the evening’s schedule. Only Monte Springhorn saw this, and his high-pitched chuckle accompanied Rennie’s opening remarks about a recent dinner he had attended. “It seems,” Rennie began, “that unbeknown to the host, the chef had once been employed by the guest of honor, a gentleman of rather short temper and unlimited fears, who had discharged him for something less than just cause. Or so the chef felt, and upon learning that this gentleman was to be . . .”

When the laughter had quieted down, Monte Springhorn followed with another tale of catastrophe striking an unsuspecting host. Soon everyone was talking, their voices rising in order to command attention, Conrad’s no less than the others’, as all tried to tell a story which in some wise exceeded the one just previously related. Of course, it wasn’t long before all of the stories began to sound apocryphal . . .