HOLY SHIT, he is so thankful for sudden company right now and his face shows it. He had started to drone out after about the start of his second basket of potatoes. It was mindless torture for a man that was either always busy or at least had something entertaining to do. Physical torture or even having something taken away from him wouldn't be nearly as effective as it was now.

Despite the slight wave of a knife for him to come closer and the fact he had stopped peeling for a second or two he returns to it with a sense of diligence even if he's losing steam for it already. He has no idea if after a time he'll be allowed to stop or if he has to finish every single damned basket. It's why he keeps going.

"I'm not a cook," he says dryly. He could probably chop and mash them into a bland soup for hobos and beggars but he had no skill in the kitchen. There was only fish on his menu when it came to something he could cook. "Yet the boss, err Childermass, has tasked me with this for the day."

And he's pretty sure this was well thought out to the point that he intentionally hid him near the back of the Cookhouse where many might not think to go. Or maybe he's over thinking it. Either way 9S do stay a while. He's suffering a bit.