Gray had seated himself at an unoccupied table in a cosy corner, and was reading the bill of fare. Mole proceeded with caution. Having hesitated between a seat near the front window and one by the fireplace, he finally settled himself opposite Gray at the same table.
Gray ordered a steak, and Mole decided on a chop. As the waiter was departing, Mole called him back and gave minute directions about the cooking, intimating at the same time that he would like something to drink.
A precocious youth with hair elaborately oiled and brushed rushed forward.
"Get me some whisky," said Mole; "and, look here!"—eyeing him sternly—"I don't want any of your cheap wash. Ask for 'Tommy Morgan.'"
"You won't get that about here," said the boy, decisively. "Can get you 'Killarney' or 'McNab' or 'Jimmy Jenkins.'"
"Look here," said Mole, gripping his arm; "you can get 'Tommy Morgan' if you try. But it's no good you going to common public-houses. Try a high-class place, and remember that there's twopence for yourself. Cut off!"
"Isn't it a funny thing, now," said Mole, addressing his remarks to the cruet and Gray, "that I have all this trouble to get a drop of good whisky? Mind you"—boldly addressing Gray—"I don't wonder at it, for the price is high, and it isn't everybody that can appreciate the flavour of 'Tommy Morgan!' It knocks 'em over. It's all strength and flavour."
"Must be pretty good," said Gray.
"It is," said Mole, "to those who understand whisky. To others it's nothing out of the ordinary."
"They say 'McNab' is good stuff," ventured Gray.