The noise was unbearable, and Mr. Porter said so. Pleased with the
tribute, the choir re-doubled its efforts, and Mr. Porter, vociferating
orders for silence, saw only too clearly the base advantage his wife had
taken of his affection for his children. He took some money from his
pocket and sent the leading treble out marketing, after which, with the
assistance of a soprano aged eight, he washed up the breakfast things and
placed one of them in the dustbin.

The entire family stood at his elbow as he cooked the dinner, and
watched, with bated breath, his frantic efforts to recover a sausage
which had fallen out of the frying-pan into the fire. A fourfold sigh of
relief heralded its return to the pan.

"Mother always--" began the eldest boy.

Mr. Porter took his scorched fingers out of his mouth and smacked the
critic's head.

The dinner was not a success. Portions of half-cooked sausages returned
to the pan, and coming back in the guise of cinders failed to find their
rightful owners.

"Last time we had sausages," said the eight-year-old Muriel, "they melted
in your mouth." Mr. Porter glowered at her.

"Instead of in the fire," said the eldest boy, with a mournful snigger.

"If I get up to you, my lad," said the harassed Mr. Porter, "you'll know
it! Pity you don't keep your sharpness for your lessons! Wot country is
Africa in?"