“Mr Glyddyr wants breakfast in directly. Here, what have you got? No, never mind what you’ve got. I’ll have broiled chicken and a sole. A fresh chicken cut up, mind; none of your week-old, cooked stales. Coffee and brandy. Mr Glyddyr’s order, you know.”
The waiter glanced at Glyddyr where he sat pretending to read the paper, and receiving a short nod, he left the room.
“Now, once more, why have you come down?”
“First and foremost, I have picked up three or four good tips for Newmarket. Chances for you to make a pile.”
“You are very generous,” sneered Glyddyr. “Your tips have not turned out so very rosy—so far.”
“Well, of course it’s speculation. Have a cigar?”
Glyddyr made an impatient gesture.
“Then I will. Give me an appetite for the dejooney.”
The speaker lit a strong cigar that had an East London aroma, and went on chatting as he lolled back in his chair, and played with his enormously thick watch-chain.
“A smoke always gives me an appetite; spoils some people’s. Well, you won’t take the tips?”