The great man of our establishment was the cook.
This knight of the gridiron was a famous fellow, and could perform wonders; of stoical countenance, he was never seen to smile.

His whole thoughts were concentrated in the mysteries of gravies, and the magic transformation of one animal into another by the art of cookery; in this he excelled to a marvellous degree.

The farce of ordering dinner was always absurd.

It was something in this style: 'Cook!' (Cook answers) 'Coming, sar!' (enter cook): 'Now, cook, you make a good dinner; do you hear ?' Cook: 'Yes, sar; master tell, I make.'-- 'Well, mulligatawny soup.' 'Yes, sar.'-- 'Calves' head with tongue and brain sauce.' 'Yes, sar.'-- ' Gravy omelette.' 'Yes, sar.'-- 'Mutton chops.' 'Yes, sar.'-- 'Fowl cotelets.' 'Yes, sar.'-- 'Beefsteaks.' 'Yes, sar.'-- 'Marrow-bones.' 'Yes, sar.'-- 'Rissoles.' 'Yes, sar.' All these various dishes he literally imitated uncommonly well, the different portions of an elk being their only foundation.
The kennel bench was comfortably littered, and the pack took possession of their new abode with the usual amount of growling and quarrelling for places; the angry grumbling continuing throughout the night between the three champions of the kennel--Smut, Bran, and Killbuck.

After a night much disturbed by this constant quarrelling, we unkennelled the hounds just as the first grey streak of dawn spread above Totapella Peak.
The mist was hanging heavily on the lower parts of the plain like a thick snowbank, although the sky was beautifully clear above, in which a few pale stars still glimmered.