The Imp and the Author
cakes paved the bottom. The Imp's eyes glistened; he sucked in his lips. The Author unscrewed the bottle, and the bottom of it appeared to fall off and turned miraculously into a silver cup.
"Do you like cold coffee?" he inquired, and as the Imp nodded voraciously he gravely poured him out a cup.
"Now fall to!" he said, and the Imp clutched a sandwich and lifted the cup to his eager lips. His round eyes beamed at the Author over the rim as he tilted back his head. A drop splashed on his blouse, and the Author started up again. "Here, wait a bit!" he said kindly, and with a practised gesture he twisted the napkin around the Imp's impatient little neck.
There was a silence while the Imp ate and drank, rapidly and to good purpose, and the Author watched him. At his third sandwich the Imp paused a moment.
"Don't you want some?" he inquired thickly, with a hospitable wave of the cup. The Author shook his head.
"No, thanks; I don't feel hungry—I had my breakfast late," he said. "They insisted on putting this up; I'm glad they did, now."
62
