“And by Plutus,” cried Harry—“I’d steep mine up to the armpits in gold; since you talk about that. But never mind, I’ll swear I’m just from Persia, my boy.”
We now arrayed ourselves in our best, and sallied ashore; and, at once, I piloted Harry to the sign of a Turkey Cock in Fulton-street, kept by one Sweeny, a place famous for cheap Souchong, and capital buckwheat cakes.
“Well, gentlemen, what will you have?”—said a waiter, as we seated ourselves at a table.
“Gentlemen!” whispered Harry to me—“gentlemen!—hear him!—I say now, Redburn, they didn’t talk to us that way on board the old Highlander. By heaven, I begin to feel my straps again:—Coffee and hot rolls,” he added aloud, crossing his legs like a lord, “and fellow—come back—bring us a venison-steak.”
“Haven’t got it, gentlemen.”
“Ham and eggs,” suggested I, whose mouth was watering at the recollection of that particular dish, which I had tasted at the sign of the Turkey Cock before. So ham and eggs it was; and royal coffee, and imperial toast.
But the butter!
“Harry, did you ever taste such butter as this before?”
“Don’t say a word,”—said Harry, spreading his tenth slice of toast “I’m going to turn dairyman, and keep within the blessed savor of butter, so long as I live.”
We made a breakfast, never to be forgotten; paid our bill with a flourish, and sallied into the street, like two goodly galleons of gold, bound from Acapulco to Old Spain.