CHAPTER VIII.
A PEACE-OFFERING.
"'Fee, faw, fum! bubble and squeak! Blessedest Thursday's the fat of the week!'" Quoted Brother Copas from one of his favourite poems.

This was in the kitchen, three days later, and he made one of the crowd edging, pushing, pressing, each with plate in hand, around the great table where the joints stood ready to be carved and distributed.

For save on Gaudy Days and great festivals of the Church, the Brethren dine in their own chambers, not in Hall; and on three days of the week must fend for themselves on food purchased out of their small allowances.
But on Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays they fetch it from the kitchen, taking their turns to choose the best cuts.

And this was Thursday and, as it happened, Brother Copas stood first on the rota.
The rota hung on the kitchen wall in a frame of oak canopied with faded velvet--an ingenious and puzzling contrivance, somewhat like the calendar prefixed to the Book of Common Prayer, with the names of the Brethren inserted on movable cards worn greasy with handling.
In system nothing could be fairer; but in practice, human nature being what it is, and the crowd without discipline, the press and clamour about the table made choosing difficult for the weaker ones.
"Brother Copas to choose! Brother Clerihew to divide!" "Aye," sang out Brother Copas cheerfully, "and I'll take my time about it.

Make room, Woolcombe, if you please, and take your elbow out of my ribs--don't I know the old trick?
And stop pushing--you behind there!.