And he never said another word until they were all five seated at one table in the Italian restaurant. A melancholy waiter of no nationality brought a soiled bill of fare; he also added two forks and a mustard-pot as a kind of after-thought.
“Bring,” said John Bradshaw, “one bottle of Raisonola and one glass.”
“Ver’ well,” said the waiter sadly, flicking a dead fly off the table with one end of his napkin. “It will be a shilling, if you please.”
“Pay afterwards,” said John Bradshaw sharply.
The waiter shrugged his shoulders. “I am ver’ sorry, but we mos’ always ask for ze monny before we bring ze Raisonola. We haf our orders. You see we haf often had a trouble to get ze monny afterwards from ze heirs. Tree weeks ago two gemmens kom in and order ze Raisonola. They trink it, and die all over ze floor.” (An expressive shrug of shoulders came in again here.) “We sweep ’em up, and throw ’em away, and they pay us nossin—nossin at all. It is all so moch loss.” His hands were turned outward, deprecatingly.
“Look here, my man,” said Menenius Agrippa quickly. “Once upon a time the members refused to work any longer for the Belly, which——”
“Dry up,” thundered John Bradshaw. “We must pay,” he added. “And it so befalleth that I have not my purse, but the Spanish Ambassador——”
The Ambassador explained that he had only Spanish coins with him, which would not be accepted. Socrates hastily added the information that he always took his money straight home to Xantippe, and that if he was short that night there would be unpleasantness.
Menenius said that he had no money, but would be glad to continue his fable. “Let’s see. Where was I? Oh, I know—any longer for the Belly, which——”
“Do drop it,” sighed the Spanish Ambassador pathetically.