There was a folding pair of trestles standing ready,
and Sam placed the tray upon them, raised a white damask napkin from where it hung over his arm, and was about to wipe his perspiring forehead with it, when cook exclaimed sharply—
“Sam!”
“Forgot,” said that gentleman, and he replaced the napkin upon his arm and took out a clean pocket-handkerchief, did what was necessary, and then repeated cook’s word—
“Well?”
“Did they say anything about the veal cutlets?”
“No,” said Sam, shaking his head.
“Nor yet about the curry?”
“No. And they didn’t say a word about the soup, nor half a word about the fish.”