Scratcher looked moodily at the barman, ordered a glass of beer and turned to Bindle.
"I changed my job," he remarked mysteriously.
"Wot jer doin'?" enquired Bindle, intimating to the barman by a nod that his pewter was to be refilled.
"Waiter," responded Scratcher.
"Waiter!" cried Bindle, regarding him with astonishment.
"Yus; at Napolini's in Regent Street;" and Scratcher replaced his glass upon the counter and, with a dexterous upward blow, scattered to the winds the froth that bedewed his upper lip.
"Well, I'm blowed!" said Bindle, finding solace in his refilled tankard. "But don't you 'ave to be a foreigner to be a waiter? Don't you 'ave to speak through your nose or somethink?"
"Noooo!" In Scratcher's voice was the contempt of superior knowledge. "Them furriners 'ave all gone to the war, or most of 'em," he added, "an' so we get a look-in."
"Wot d'you do?" enquired Bindle.
"Oh! we jest take orders, an' serves the grub, an' makes out the bills, an' gets tips. I made four pound last week, all but twelve shillings," he added.