Horton's kitchen.
The room was very warm. There was the curious, familiar smell of
brooms and aprons, of soap and soda, flavoured with brown sugar,
treacle, and a dash of toast and roasted coffee. The ashes still
glowed between the bars of the range like a grinning mouth. He put the
candle down and looked about him nervously. There was an awful moment
when he thought a great six-foot cook, with red visage and bare arms,
would rise and strike him with a ladle or a rolling-pin. In the faint
light he made out the white deal table in the centre, the rows of pots
and pans gleaming in mid-air, dish-cloths hanging on a string to dry,
layers of plates of various sizes on the shelves, and jugs suspended
by their handles at an angle ready for pouring out. He saw the dresser
with its huge, capacious drawers--the only drawers in the world that
opened easily, and were deep enough to be of value.
Also--there was a sound, the sound all kitchens have, steadily
tapping, clicking, ticking. He turned; he saw the familiar object
whence the sound proceeded. At the end of the great silent room,
upright like a sentry placed against the wall, stiff and rigid, he saw
a figure with a round and pallid face, staring solemnly at him through
the gloom.
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