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Page 84
"Sure," said Mr. Peters--"not falling to pieces. That's right.
Go on."
"'Then add the cream and cook five minutes longer'" read Ashe.
"Is that all?"
"That's all of that one."
Mr. Peters settled himself more comfortably in bed.
"Read me the piece where it tells about curried lobster."
Ashe cleared his throat.
"'Curried Lobster,'" he read. "'Materials: Two one-pound
lobsters, two teaspoonfuls lemon juice, half a spoonful curry
powder, two tablespoonfuls butter, a tablespoonful flour, one
cupful scalded milk, one cupful cracker crumbs, half teaspoonful
salt, quarter teaspoonful pepper.'"
"Go on."
"'Way of Preparing: Cream the butter and flour and add the
scalded milk; then add the lemon juice, curry powder, salt and
pepper. Remove the lobster meat from the shells and cut into
half-inch cubes.'"
"Half-inch cubes," sighed Mr. Peters wistfully. "Yes?"
"'Add the latter to the sauce.'"
"You didn't say anything about the latter. Oh, I see; it means
the half-inch cubes. Yes?"
"'Refill the lobster shells, cover with buttered crumbs, and bake
until the crumbs are brown. This will serve six persons.'"
"And make them feel an hour afterward as though they had
swallowed a live wild cat," said Mr. Peters ruefully.
"Not necessarily," said Ashe. "I could eat two portions of that
at this very minute and go off to bed and sleep like a little
child."
Mr. Peters raised himself on his elbow and stared at him. They
were in the millionaire's bedroom, the time being one in the
morning, and Mr. Peters had expressed a wish that Ashe should
read him to sleep. He had voted against Ashe's novel and produced
from the recesses of his suitcase a much-thumbed cookbook. He
explained that since his digestive misfortunes had come on him he
had derived a certain solace from its perusal.
It may be that to some men sorrow's crown of sorrow is
remembering happier things; but Mr. Peters had not found that to
be the case. In his hour of affliction it soothed him to read of
Hungarian Goulash and escaloped brains, and to remember that he,
too, the nut-and-grass eater of today, had once dwelt in Arcadia.
The passage of the days, which had so sapped the stamina of the
efficient Baxter, had had the opposite effect on Mr. Peters. His
was one of those natures that cannot deal in half measures.
Whatever he did, he did with the same driving energy. After the
first passionate burst of resistance he had settled down into a
model pupil in Ashe's one-man school of physical culture. It had
been the same, now that he came to look back on it, at Muldoon's.
Now that he remembered, he had come away from White Plains
hoping, indeed, never to see the place again, but undeniably a
different man physically. It was not the habit of Professor
Muldoon to let his patients loaf; but Mr. Peters, after the
initial plunge, had needed no driving. He had worked hard at his
cure then, because it was the job in hand. He worked hard now,
under the guidance of Ashe, because, once he had begun, the thing
interested and gripped him.
Ashe, who had expected continued reluctance, had been astonished
and delighted at the way in which the millionaire had behaved.
Nature had really intended Ashe for a trainer; he identified
himself so thoroughly with his man and rejoiced at the least
signs of improvement.
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