“By Jove, it’s too late,” said he, feeling in his pocket—“my handkerchief is gone!”
“Is that all?” I inquired.
“Well, let me see,” he observed, feeling again: “yes, thank God! my watch and purse are quite safe.”
“Ah,” I continued, laughing, “the old adage which prompts us to thank God for all things is quite correct; for you are actually thanking Him for the loss of your handkerchief.”
“Not at all,” he replied; “I was thanking Him for the safety of my watch and purse.” After a hearty laugh we parted, he going to the “Albion,” and I to the “Wellington.”
On my arrival there, I found that my friend had been and was gone. My intelligent cabby soon brought me back through the dense atmosphere to that far-famed temple of Comus, at which crowds of celebrities meet nightly—some to restore themselves internally, others to sharpen their wits at that tantalising abode of good cheer. Upon entering, I inquired of a waiter, a stranger to me, if he could inform me where my six friends intended to sup.
“Yes, sir, directly.” Speaking down the trumpet: “Below! a Welsh rabbit and fresh toast—two kidneys underdone—scalloped oyster—a chop—two taters! Look sharp below!” To the barmaid: “Two stouts, miss—one pale—four brandies hot, two without—one whisky—three gin—pint sherry—bottle of port!”
“What an intelligent waiter!” thought I, “to have so good a memory.” Having waited till he had given his orders, I again said, “Pray, my fine fellow, in which room are my friends going to sup? They have a private room, no doubt?”
“Yes, sir, a private room for two.”
“No, not for two—for six.”