Peter ought to have been satisfied, but he only looked worried. He
glanced round the little closet that served as a kitchen, in search of
possible sources for slips, but did not see them. All he was able to say
was, "That broth smells very nice, Jenifer."
"Yissah. Dar ain't nuffin in dat sup buh a quart a thick cream, and de
squeezin's of a hunerd clams, sah. Dat sup will make de angels sorry dey
died. Dey'll just tink you'se dreful unkine not to offer dem a secon'
help. Buh doan yo' do it, sah, foh when dey gits to dem prayhens, dey'll
be pow'ful glad yo' didn't." To himself, Jenifer remarked: "Who he gwine
hab dis day? He neber so anxious befoh, not even when de Presidint an
Guv'nor Pohter dey dun dine hyah."
Peter went to his room and, after a due course of clubbing and tubbing,
dressed himself with the utmost care. Truth compels the confession that
he looked in his glass for some minutes. Not, however, apparently with
much pleasure, for an anxious look came into his face, and he remarked
aloud, as he turned away, "I don't look so old, but I once heard Watts
say that I should never take a prize for my looks, and he was right.
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