What R. Donald Minor didn't eat for breakfast.
A very enormous slice of potato pie, served cold, was brought out for Mr. Minor for his breakfast that morning. It was brought out with a tumbler of orange juice, and warmed milk. Minor, a man of enormous appetite, which was not hidden in his equally affluent figure, had had a rather strange habit of ignoring his meal till it was quite cold, at which point, having attained room temperature, he would suddenly wake to its appearance and devour it with white-eyed zeal.
On that morning in particular Minor had been busy fiddling with his new philological paper. He insisted on remaining occupied, though neither fortune nor conscience demanded it. It was not unusual for him to forget small things and thus the tumbler remained full.
However, the orange juice was rather special. Mrs. Thompson, his housekeeper, had a nephew who had just come back from a pilgrimmage to the Holy Land. There he had fallen in love not only with afternoon siestas, but also the oranges native to that land. On his return he brought with him a suitcase of no less than forty-seven oranges, four of which were given to his favourite aunt. She didn't like oranges. And thus this juice had travelled many several leagues simply to be untasted by Minor.
Which was just as well since Minor was not a man predisposed to novelty. He had long discouraged his relatives from travelling, and was of the disreputable filial fame of badgering everyone during Christmas not to bother eating together. After all, artichokes were too rich for someone of his native build. He would much prefer if they all stayed home.
Minor would meet a rather sour end, a few years later. He was to step on a yellowjacket while reaching for his paper, only inches from his doorstep. Reports, culled from Gerry, the man next door, tell us that he swelled up considerably and was obviously strangled by his own body's violent histamine reaction, flopping ungainfully on the ground, besmirching his plaid woollen coat.
Some distance away, a group of swimmers were racing in the pool. They ressembled a fleet of thrashing sardines, fighting against the net.
On that morning in particular Minor had been busy fiddling with his new philological paper. He insisted on remaining occupied, though neither fortune nor conscience demanded it. It was not unusual for him to forget small things and thus the tumbler remained full.
However, the orange juice was rather special. Mrs. Thompson, his housekeeper, had a nephew who had just come back from a pilgrimmage to the Holy Land. There he had fallen in love not only with afternoon siestas, but also the oranges native to that land. On his return he brought with him a suitcase of no less than forty-seven oranges, four of which were given to his favourite aunt. She didn't like oranges. And thus this juice had travelled many several leagues simply to be untasted by Minor.
Which was just as well since Minor was not a man predisposed to novelty. He had long discouraged his relatives from travelling, and was of the disreputable filial fame of badgering everyone during Christmas not to bother eating together. After all, artichokes were too rich for someone of his native build. He would much prefer if they all stayed home.
Minor would meet a rather sour end, a few years later. He was to step on a yellowjacket while reaching for his paper, only inches from his doorstep. Reports, culled from Gerry, the man next door, tell us that he swelled up considerably and was obviously strangled by his own body's violent histamine reaction, flopping ungainfully on the ground, besmirching his plaid woollen coat.
Some distance away, a group of swimmers were racing in the pool. They ressembled a fleet of thrashing sardines, fighting against the net.
