But there is no escaping these anomalies if you caravan; they crop up continually; and however much you try to dam them out, the waters of awkwardly familiar situations constantly break through and set all your finer feelings on edge. Fain would I have let the rain work its will on Jellaby’s back, but what about the sausages? As they turned and twisted in the pan, obedient to his guiding fork, I could not find it in me to let a drop of rain mar that melodious fizzling. So I stood there doing my best, glad at least I was spared being compromised owing to the absence of my friends, while the two other gentlemen warmed up the potatoes over the fire preparatory to converting them into _purée_, and the ladies in the caravans were employed, judging by the fragrance, in making coffee. In spite of the rain a small crowd had collected and was leaning on the gate. Their faces were divided between wonder and pity; but this was an expression we had now got used to, for except on fine days every face we met at once assumed it, unless the face belonged to a little boy, when it was covered instead with what seemed to be glee and was certainly animation, the animation being apparently not infrequently inspired by a train of thought which led up to, after we had passed, a calling out and a throwing of stones. “You’ll see these turn brown soon,” said Jellaby, crouching over his sausages and pursuing them untiringly round and round the pan with a fork. “Yes,” said I; “and a pleasant sight too when one is hungry.” “By Jove, yes,” said he; “caravaning makes one appreciate things, doesn’t it?” “Yes,” said I, “whenever there are any.” In silence he continued to pursue with his fork. “They are very pink,” said I, after some minutes. “Yes,” said he. “Do you think so much--such unceasing--exercise is good for them?” “Well, but I must get them brown all round.” “They are, however, still altogether pink.” “Patience, my dear Baron. You’ll soon see.” I watched him in a further silence of some minutes. “Do you, Jellaby,” I then inquired, “really understand how best to treat a sausage?” “Oh, yes; they’re bound to turn brown soon.” “But see how obstinately they continue pink. Would it not be wise, considering the lateness, to call my wife and desire her to cook them?” “What! The Baroness in this wet stubble?” said he, with such energy that I deemed the moment come for the striking of the blow that had been so long impending. [Illustration: _“Do you, Jellaby,” I then inquired, “really understand how best to treat a sausage?”_] “When a lady,” I said with great distinctness, “has cooked for fourteen years without interruption--ever since, that is, she was sixteen--one may safely at thirty leave it always in her hands.” “Monstrous,” said he. At first I thought he was in some way alluding to her age, and to the fact that he had been deceived into supposing her young. “What is monstrous?” I inquired, as he did not add anything.