make a curry for breakfast. Such a savoury curry as it was, and it
turned out to be all that the heart of a hungry man could desire; so
did the rice: I really felt proud of that rice; each grain kept
itself duly apart from its fellow, and was as soft and white and
plump as possible. Everything went well, and I had plenty of
assistants to carry in the substantial breakfast as fast as it was
ready: the coffee, toast, all the other things had gone in; even the
curry had been borne off amid many compliments, and now it only
remained for me to dish up the rice.

Imagine the scene. The bright pretty kitchen, with its large window
through which you could see the green hills around dotted with
sheep; the creek chattering along just outside, whilst close to the
back door loitered a crowd of fowls and ducks on the chance of fate
sending them something extra to eat. Beneath the large window, and
just in front of it, stood a large deal table, and it used to be my
custom to transfer the contents of the saucepans to the dishes at
that convenient place. Well, I emptied the rice into its dish, and
gazed fondly at it for a moment: any cook might have been proud of
that beautiful heap of snow-white grains. I had boiled a great
quantity, more than necessary it seemed, for although the dish was
piled up almost as high as it would hold, some rice yet remained in
the saucepan.

Oh, that I had been content to leave it there! But no: with a
certain spasmodic frugality which has often been my bane, I shook
the saucepan vehemently, in order to dislodge some more of its
contents into my already full dish. As I did so, my treacherous
wrist, strained by the weight of the saucepan, gave way, and with
the rapidity of a conjurer's trick I found the great black saucepan