BECOME A COOK 



When they hoisted me up he began to walk, then he 

 trotted, and then he broke into a canter. I yelled 

 my loudest for help and lay back tugging with my small 

 arms at the bridle reins. Some of the stable boys came 

 running after me, but Jim must have thought that they 

 were other horses, for he stretched himself out and did 

 a furlong inside thirteen seconds. He swung along 

 until he came to a mud bank, where he shot me off, 

 and then turned round and allowed himself to be led 

 quietly back. We all know that dogs can smile and 

 that tears come into their eyes. I am not sure to this 

 day whether Jim was laughing at me or whether he 

 pitied me. In any case there was no half-and-half idea 

 about what they thought in the stable-yard. One 

 thing was quite certain : I should never make a jockey. 

 They told me so, and I agreed that it wasn't my work ; 

 but I was a handy boy, and, instead of getting rid of 

 me, they put me on to cook. I could hardly reach the 

 top of the stove, but the coffee I made was all right, and 

 I got fine and dandy at frying bacon and cooking eggs 

 for the bunch. I remember that I tried my hand at a 

 few other things, but generally had to smuggle the 

 result away to a corner and eat it up myself, until one 

 day I found I could make hot biscuit^— like your 

 Scotch scones or small soda cakes, but hot. They 

 were some success, and the neighbours would send the 

 ingredients from miles round for me to make them. 

 So we muddled along. I was always thinking that 

 something would turn up, for, although cooking can 

 be a fine art, I was not actually qualifying for a chef. 

 Now at that time I was quite sure that I should never 

 be a jockey, but all the same I would sometimes sit 

 down and ask myself how it was that I was frightened 

 of a horse when I was not scared at other things. But 

 the talk with myself generally left off where it began. 



19 



