"I'll leave it to the landlady. Anything nice will do."
"Good Heaven!" said Bologna, as the waiter went out of the room; "what a bill you'll have to pay here!"
They strolled about the town: arranged with the manager to commence next night with "Mother Goose," and having beguiled the time till supper, repaired to the inn, where a fine brace of partridges, done to a turn, were placed before Grimaldi, which his companion eyed with very hungry looks, congratulating himself aloud, however, upon having saved himself that expense, at all events.
There was a silence for some minutes, broken only by the clatter of the knives and forks; and then Bologna, who had been walking up and down the room in a restless manner, stopped short, and inquired if the birds were nice?
"Very," replied Grimaldi, helping himself again; "they are delicious."
Bologna walked up and down the room faster after this, and then rang the bell with great vehemence. The waiter appeared, and Bologna, after long consideration, hesitatingly ordered a Welsh rare-bit.
"Certainly, sir," said the man; and by the time Grimaldi had finished his supper, the Welsh rare-bit appeared.
"Stop a minute, waiter," said Bologna. "Grimaldi, do you mean to take supper every night?"
"Certainly. Every night."
"Well, then, waiter, remember to bring me a Welsh rare-bit every evening when Mr. Grimaldi takes his supper. I don't want it; but it has so rude an appearance to sit looking on while another man is eating, that I must do it as a matter of form and comfort. You'll not forget?"