"Well, we'll curry the eight and roast the six."
On Sunday I refused curry and roast fowl. Joe asked why. I told him.
"Blokes wot 'ang around the cook-'ouse door 'ears things an' sees things o' times wot puts 'em off their grub. 'Ave some bully?"
I did.
Joe seldom had enough waiters, and what he had were mostly black men, quite untrained. I remember one white waiter who answered to the name of William. In our eyes he had many faults—in Joe's, but one. He would talk to the customers, stand and talk instead of attending to wants.
Joe warned him repeatedly, but his warnings were lost on William.
One day Joe lost his temper. "Look 'ere, you snip, wot 'ave I told yer? Wot 'ave I kep' on tellin' yer? You'd talk the 'ind leg off a mule! You'r hat it agen. 'Ere, quit. Sling yer 'ook out o' this. I'm bloomin' well fed up with yer."
William blinked at Joe during this harangue, and then quietly asked: "Do I understand you to mean, Joe, that I'm sacked?"
"Yes," said Joe, "I sack yer. Come to the till for yer pay."
"Do you mean," pursued William, "that I am a free man?"