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Cadets teeter beneath helmets resembling giant coal scuttles, while their superiors barely prevent their ornate headgear from succumbing to gravity.

“Sometimes you have to let the underworld in,” Mr. Oliver says, describing an invasion of his house’s coal scuttle by a group of vagrants.

The only thing would hush her, he always said, was for him to beat the coal scuttle with a poke and sing ‘Dixie.’

“No, you simple-minded piece of cream cheese,” she replies, “I’m filling the coal scuttle with apple sauce.”

Next came a dragon-shaped coal scuttle that glowed gold and orange.