Such be the Ways of Providence," and Cook sighed with protestive respectfulness....
"Tapped 'er systerm, they did," she added pensively, and with a little justifiable pride.
"Were they hard taps ?" inquired Lucille, reappearing from behind the flagon.

"I hate them myself, even on the funny-bone or knuckles--but on the _cistern!_ Ugh!" "_Hard_ taps; they was _silver_ taps," ejaculated Cook, "and drawed gallings and gallings--and nothing to laugh at, Master Dammicles, neether....

So don't you drink no more, Miss Lucy." "I can't," admitted Lucille--and indeed, to Dam, who regarded his "cousin" with considerable concern, it did seem that, even as Cook's poor young sister of unhappy memory, Lucille had "swole"-- though only locally.
"Does _beer_ make you swell or swole or swellow when you swallow, Cooker ?" he inquired; "because, if so, _you_ had better be--" but he was not allowed to conclude his deduction, for cook, bridling, bristling, and incensed, bore down upon the children and swept them from her kitchen.
To the boy, even as he fled _via_ a dish of tartlets and cakes, it seemed remarkable that a certain uncertainty of temper (and figure) should invariably distinguish those who devote their lives to the obviously charming and attractive pursuit of the culinary art.
Surely one who, by reason of unfortunate limitations of sex, age, ability, or property, could not become a Colonel of Cavalry could still find infinite compensation in the career of cook or railway-servant.
Imagine, in the one case, having absolute freedom of action with regard to raisins, tarts, cream, candy-peel, jam, plum-puddings and cakes, making life one vast hamper, and in the other case, boundless opportunity in the matter of leaping on and off moving trains, carrying lighted bull's-eye lanterns, and waving flags.
One of the early lessons that life taught him, without troubling to explain them, and she taught him many and cruel, was that Cooks are Cross.
"What shall we do now, Dam ?" asked Lucille, and added, "Let's raid the rotten nursery and rag the Haddock.

Little ass! Nothing else to do.

How I _hate_ Sunday afternoon....