CHAPTER II. “THE FISHERMAN’S REST”

 In the kitchen Sally was extremely busy—saucepans and frying-pans were standing in rows on the gigantic hearth, the huge stock-pot stood in a corner, and the jack turned with slow deliberation, and presented alternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of beef. The two little kitchen-maids bustled around, eager to help, hot and panting, with cotton sleeves well tucked up above the dimpled elbows, and giggling over some private jokes of their own, whenever Miss Sally’s back was turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid in temper and solid in bulk, kept up a long and subdued grumble, while she stirred the stock-pot methodically over the fire. 

 “What ho! Sally!” came in cheerful if none too melodious accents from the coffee-room close by. 

 “Lud bless my soul!” exclaimed Sally, with a good-humoured laugh, “what be they all wanting now, I wonder!” 

 “Beer, of course,” grumbled Jemima, “you don’t ’xpect Jimmy Pitkin to ’ave done with one tankard, do ye?” 

 “Mr. ’Arry, ’e looked uncommon thirsty too,” simpered Martha, one of the little kitchen-maids; and her beady black eyes twinkled as they met those of her companion, whereupon both started on a round of short and suppressed giggles. 

 Sally looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully rubbed her hands against her shapely hips; her palms were itching, evidently, to come in contact with Martha’s rosy cheeks—but inherent good-humour prevailed, and with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned her attention to the fried potatoes. 

 “What ho, Sally! hey, Sally!” 

 And a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient hands against the oak tables of the coffee-room, accompanied the shouts for mine host’s buxom daughter. 

 “Sally!” shouted a more persistent voice, “are ye goin’ to be all night with that there beer?” 

 “I do think father might get the beer for them,” muttered Sally, as Jemima, stolidly and without further comment, took a couple of foam-crowned jugs from the shelf, and began filling a number of pewter tankards with some of that home-brewed ale for which “The Fisherman’s Rest” had been famous since the days of King Charles. “’E knows ’ow busy we are in ’ere.” 

 “Your father is too 

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