Two yellow streams were pouring over the
sides of the saucepans.
"Hello!" cried Winn, as he seized a spoon and began ladling a portion
of the contents from each into a third pan. "How ever did these things
get full again? I'm sure I left lots of room in them."
At that moment the contents of all three pans began to burn, and he
filled them with water. A few minutes later all three began to bubble
over, and he got more pans. Before he was through with that mush,
every available inch of space on the stove was covered with pans of it,
the disgusted cook was liberally bedaubed with it, and so was the
floor. The contents of some of the pans were burned black; others were
as weak as gruel; all were lumpy, and all were insipid for want of salt.
For a moment Winn, hot, cross, and smarting from many scalds and burns,
reviewed the results of his first attempt at preparing a meal with a
comical expression, in which wrath and disgust were equally blended.
Then, yielding to an impulse of anger, he picked up one of the messes
and flung it, pan and all, out through the open door. He was stooping
to seize the next, which he proposed to treat in a similar manner, when
a hand was laid on his shoulder, and he was almost petrified with
amazement by hearing a voice exclaim:
"Hold on, young man! One at a time is enough.
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