All
the empty kitchens of England were at this moment in league together,
but this old Yorkshire kitchen was the parent of them all--and thence
the Spell first issued. It was his own childhood kitchen.
And Uncle Felix travelled backwards against the machinery of Time that
cheats the majority so easily with its convention of moving hands and
ticking voice and bullying, staring visage. He slid swiftly down the
long banister-descent of years and reached in a flash that old sombre
Yorkshire kitchen, and stood, four-foot nothing, face smudged and
fingers sticky, beside the big deal table with the dying embers in the
grate upon his right. His heart was beating. He could just reach the
juicy cake without standing on a chair. He ate the very slice that he
had eaten forty years ago. It _was_ possible to have your cake and eat
it too!...
He gulped it down and sucked the five fingers of each hand in turn--
then turned to attack the staring monster that had tried to make him
believe it was impossible. He crossed the stone floor on tiptoe, but
with challenge in his heart, looked straight into its humbugging big
face, opened its carefully buttoned jacket--and took off the weights.
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