"Ah," he said, "brewing, I see. Can I be of any use?"

"We've finished years ago," said Barry.

"Ages ago," said M'Todd.

A look of intense alarm appeared on Shoeblossom's classical features.

"You've not finished, really?"

"We've finished cooking everything," said Drummond. "We haven't begun
tea yet. Now, are you happy?"

Shoeblossom was. So happy that he felt he must do something to
celebrate the occasion. He felt like a successful general. There must
be _something_ he could do to show that he regarded the situation
with approval. He looked round the study. Ha! Happy thought--the
frying-pan. That useful culinary instrument was lying in the fender,
still bearing its cargo of fat, and beside it--a sight to stir the
blood and make the heart beat faster--were the sausages, piled up on
their plate.

Shoeblossom stooped. He seized the frying-pan. He gave it one twirl in
the air. Then, before any one could stop him, he had turned it upside
down over the fire. As has been already remarked, you could never
predict exactly what James Rupert Leather-Twigg would be up to next.

When anything goes out of the frying-pan into the fire, it is usually
productive of interesting by-products. The maxim applies to fat. The