The Cook by Harry Kressing Read Free Book Online

he was even more thirsty than hungry.
    The maximum time allowed for eating a bird was agreed on, and the match began midst the laughter and shouting of the men who had gathered round the table. Some of them had done a little betting and they encouraged their favorite.
    Harold stood behind Conrad, smiling and tired.
    At a nearby table two men worked carefully on the prize.
    Rudolph, more and more drunk, lurched dutifully from fire to fire.
    The match was really over when each man had eaten half his tray of birds and Conrad told Harold to put two more trays in the oven.
    Heavy looked across at him, stupefied. One tray was his limit and the standing record for the contest.
    By the time they started on their last row of birds the outcome had become obvious to all. Heavy was stuffing himself, forcing the birds down. His fat face was beginning to look apoplectic, whereas Conrad was laughing and talking, eating leisurely and delighting in every mouthful.
    The ring of men drew closer . . .
    At last there was only one bird left on each tray. Heavy picked his up and looked at it. He started to open his mouth. But then he had to close it to keep from gagging.
    He tossed the bird on the tray of bones beside him.
    A murmur rose from the men.
    Conrad laughed and sank his teeth into the breast of his last red-bird.
    Everyone began shouting and clapping him on the back.
    “The winner! The winner!” they cried. “Conrad’s the winner!”
    Conrad nodded in acknowledgment, slowly masticating his mouthful of red-bird breast.
    And then there were shouts of “The prize! The prize!”
    Two men came forward, bearing on a tray a wreath of red-bird feathers.
    Conrad removed his chef’s hat, and the men solemnly placed the wreath of victory on his head.
    Conrad thanked them and then said that a toast was in order: “To Heavy!” he cried, standing up. “To Heavy, a truly great eater! And a great drinker! For Heavy had eaten before he challenged me, while I was working all day without eating anything. And that hardly makes for an even contest. If it had been the other way around, if Heavy had been doing the cooking and I the shooting—who knows what the outcome would have been. Heavy might be toasting me!”
    All the men cheered at this.
    Heavy smiled at Conrad, very appreciative, and tried to join in the toast. But he couldn’t swallow any more beer. Someone laughed and said that if Heavy had done the cooking, the men would probably be shooting him now instead of toasting him.
    After that all the men drank a toast to Conrad.
    Conrad adjusted his red crown and then picked up the remains of his last bird.
    The men suddenly fell silent. Incredulous, they watched him as he carefully detached one of the legs.
    “Eggy!” Conrad called. “I need some more beer. And Harold—those birds must be done by now . . . Bring both trays. I’m hungry!”

PART II

11
    Mrs. Hill was perched on Conrad’s stool, sipping a cup of broth, as was now her custom when she came into the kitchen to chat with him.
    The relationship had grown steadily less formal, and sometimes Mrs. Hill sat in the kitchen for hours discussing matters and problems appertaining to the domain of food and domestic management. Maxfield resented this, and the first half-dozen times that he discovered Mrs. Hill in the kitchen talking to Conrad he sought to remain on some pretext, but Mrs. Hill had got rid of him, sending him on a duty to another part of the house, or with a message for Mrs. Wigton. Mrs. Wigton too felt she was being supplanted in Mrs. Hill’s counsels, though there was little she could do about it, since she wasn’t even allowed in the kitchen.
    “. . . Daphne is coming this Wednesday with Mr. and Mrs. Vale,” Mrs. Hill said, taking a sip of her broth. “She rarely leaves the house, poor girl, but her parents have raved so about your cooking, and they insist that she come.—You know, Conrad, after you fixed Brogg’s specialty for them Mrs. Vale hasn’t said one good