Lunching as it Is.
No, I certainly did not order Irish Stew; but as you have now brought it, and I have been waiting a quarter of an hour for a cut from the joint, I prefer to take it.
This room is very stuffy and crowded. Is that purple-faced gentleman in the corner suffering from an apoplectic stroke?
No; but he has been waiting half an hour for the Irish Stew which I have just annexed. He seems angry about it.
Waiter, would you try not to kick my chair and knock the back of my head every time you pass with a dish?
Yes, I know it's a narrow gangway, and that everybody in this dark and confined crib which you call a City Restaurant is cramped for room; still, I do object to collisions between my best hat and somebody else's victuals.
Would you mind talking to me in the Deaf and Dumb Alphabet? In this maddening clatter it is impossible to hear a word you say.
That young man three from me is evidently training as the Champion Express Eater of the World. He has got through joint, potatoes, rhubarb tart, and Cheddar cheese in seven minutes, and is now putting on his hat to go.