"You're punctual, my boy; and punctuality's a cardinal virtue about dinner-time," said my grandfather, looking at his watch; "three o'clock exactly. And now we'll have dinner. I only hope the new cook is a tolerable proficient." "What's become of Mrs Grigson?" asked Owen. "You haven't parted with that disciple of Apicius, I should hope?" "She's confined again," said my grandfather, sighing; "a most prolific woman that! It certainly can't be above half-a-year since her last child was born, and she's just going to have another. 'Tis certainly not longer ago than last autumn," he added, musingly. "A wonderful woman," said Owen; "she ought to be purchased by the Government, and sent out to some of our thinly-populated colonies. And who fills her place?" "Why, I'll tell you," responded the Major. "Joe Trigg, my old servant, is confined too--in the guardroom, I mean, for getting drunk--and I've taken a man of the regiment, one Private Bags, for a day or two, who recommended his wife as an excellent cook. She says the same of herself; but this is her first trial, and I'm a little nervous about it." "Shocking rascal that Bags," said Owen. "Indeed!" said my grandfather; "I'm sorry to hear that. I didn't inquire about his character. He offered his services, saying he came from the same part of England as myself, though I don't recollect him." "Terrible work this blockade," said the Major after a pause. "Do you know, if I was a general in command of a besieging army, I don't think I could find it in my heart to starve out the garrison. Consider now, my dear boy" (laying his forefinger on Owen's arm)--"consider now, several thousand men with strong appetites, never having a full meal for months together. And just, too, as my digestion was getting all right--for I never get a nightmare now, though I frequently have the most delicious dreams of banquets that I try to eat, but wake before I get a mouthful. 'Tis enough to provoke a saint. And as if this was not enough, the supply of books is cut off. The _Weekly Entertainer_ isn't even an annual entertainer to me. The last number I got was in '79, and I've been a regular subscriber these twelve years. There's the _Gentleman's Magazine_, too. The last one reached me a year since, with a capital story in it, only half-finished, that I'm anxious to know the end of; and also a rebus that I've been longing to see the answer to. 'The answer in our next,' says the tantalising editor. It's a capital rebus--just listen now. 'Two-thirds of the name of an old novelist, one-sixth of what we all do in the morning, and a heathen deity, make together a morsel fit for a king.' I've been working at it for upwards of a year, and I can't guess it. Can you?" "Roast pig with stuffing answers the general description," said Owen. "That, you'll admit, is a morsel fit for a king."