“Where do we eat?”
In a spirit of appropriate independence they decided to elude the special arrangements made for their entertainment and forage for themselves. From the moment of their embarkation from their native land their daily diet had been selected and provided by a paternal but unimaginative Department of State, and their stomachs cried out for something unusual, unexpected, and, if possible, unwholesome. But London has an area of seven hundred and fifty square miles. This offers an embarrassing choice of places of refreshment. They swung on their heels undecided.
“I guess we better ask some guy,” suggested Ed Gillette.
The motion was seconded by Al Thompson.
“There’s a Jock,” he said. “Let’s go ask him.”
They approached their quarry—a squat figure in a kilt, with a round and overheated countenance beaming like a vermilion haggis under a voluminous khaki bonnet—and addressing him as “friend,” enquired:
“Where do folks eat around here?”
The Scot smiled affably.
“I’m no varra weel acquent with this toon,” he admitted. “If it was Airdrie, now, or Coatbridge! I’m awa’ there to-night. I’m just on leave, like yourselves. But I doot we’ll no be goin’ far wrong if we keep along toward The Strand. Will I come with you?”