"It's Slipper's cat, I knew it was," cried Dolf, when Nelle had taken
off the lid.

Each held out his plate and Nelle, looking into the pot, produced some
brown meat, cut into pieces, which she poured on to the plates with
plenty of gravy. Dolf looked carefully at the pieces which Nelle gave
him, smelt them, and after a moment's pause, brought his fist down on
the table and cried:

"God forgive me, Riekje, it's scheisels."

It was indeed ox tripe prepared in the Flemish manner, with liver, heart
and lungs. Dolf put his fork into the biggest pieces first, and as he
swallowed them, rubbed his hands over his stomach to show his approval.

"Nelle is a capital cook," said Tobias. "I know King Leopold eats
scheisels cooked in wine, but Nelle makes them just as good with water."

"This is indeed a fine Saint Nicholas we are keeping," said Dolf to his
wife, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "We shall
always remember eating tripe on St. Nicholas day this year."

Nelle now got up and pushed the frying-pan on the fire. She took care
first to rake out the ashes and to put some fagots of wood on the
flames. When the stove began to roar again Nelle became serious and
uncovered her batter.

It had risen to the top of the pan, and was rich, thick, and fragrant,
with here and there little bubbles on its surface. Nelle plunged a big