bits of lemon peel and fragments of broken victuals swimming in it,
and a short, stout stick, with a little bunch of foul rag tied to one
end of it. Here the Mussaul sits on the ice numda while we have our
meals, and as each plate returns from the table, he takes charge of
it, and transfers to his mouth whatever he finds on it, for he is of
the omnivora, like the crow. Then he seizes his weapon of offence,
and, dipping the rag end into the handie, gives the plate a masterly
wipe, and lays it on the table upside down, or dries it with a damask
table napkin. The butler encourages him for some reason to use up
the table napkins in this way. I suppose it is because he does not
like to waste the dhobie on anything before it is properly soiled.
When the Mussaul has disposed of the breakfast things in this summary
way, he betakes himself to the great work of the day, the polishing
of the knives. He first plunges the ivory handles into boiling
water, and leaves them to steep for a time, then he seats himself on
the ice again, and, arranging a plank of wood in a sloping position,
holds it fast with his toes, rubs it well with a piece of bath brick,
and commences to polish with all the energy which he has saved by the
neglect of other duties. Hour after hour the squeaky, squeaky,
squeaky sound of that board plays upon your nerves, not the nerves of
the ear, but the nerves of the mind, for there is more in it than the
ear can convey. Every sight and every sound in this world comes to
us inextricably woven into the warp which the mind supplies, and, as
you listen to that baleful sound, you seem to feel with your finger
points the back of each good, new knife getting sharper and sharper,
and to watch its progress as it wears away at the point of greatest
pressure, until the end of the blade is connected with the rest by a
narrow neck, which eventually breaks, and the point falls off,
leaving the knife in that condition so familiar to us all, when the
blade, about three inches long, ends in a jagged, square point, the