HOW BARNABAS BOUGHT AN UNRIDABLE HORSE—AND RODE IT
The coffee-room at the "George" is a longish, narrowish, dullish chamber, with a row of windows that look out upon the yard,—but upon this afternoon they looked at nothing in particular; and here Barnabas found a waiter, a lonely wight who struck him as being very like the room itself, in that he, also, was long, and narrow, and dull, and looked out upon the yard at nothing in particular; and, as he gazed, he sighed, and tapped thoughtfully at his chin with a salt-spoon. As Barnabas entered, however, he laid down the spoon, flicked an imaginary crumb from the table-cloth with his napkin, and bowed.
"Dinner, sir?" he inquired in a dullish voice, and with his head set engagingly to one side, while his sharp eyes surveyed Barnabas from boots to waistcoat, from waistcoat to neckcloth, and stayed there while he drew out his own shirt-frill with caressing fingers, and coughed disapprobation into his napkin. "Did you say dinner, sir?" he inquired again.
"Thank you, no," answered Barnabas.
"Perhaps cheese an' a biscuit might be nearer your mark, and say—a half of porter?"
"I've only just had breakfast," said Barnabas, aware of the waiter's scrutiny.
"Ah!" sighed the waiter, still caressing his shirt-frill, "you're
Number Four, I think—night coach?"
"Yes."
"From the country of course, sir?"
"Yes—from the country," said Barnabas, beginning to frown a little, "but how in the world did you guess that?"