Canterbury was enchanted ground to me. We found the very old cellar over which stood the Canterbury Inn. I could picture the whole thing to myself. I even reconciled Chaucer's spelling with the quaintness and curiousness of the old, old town.
We strolled up to St. Martin's Church, said to be the oldest church in England, and wandered around the churchyard, filled with glorious roses creeping everywhere over tombs so old that the lettering is illegible. When the sun set, we had the most beautiful view of Canterbury to be had anywhere, and one of the most beautiful in all England.
We sat down to a cold supper that night in a charming little inn with diamond-paned windows. But as Jimmie loves Paris cooking and would almost barter his chances of heaven for a smoking dish of sole à la Normande at the Café Marguery, he cast looks of deep aversion at a side table loaded with all sorts of cold and jellied meats. His choice of evils finally fell upon chicken, and to the purple-faced waiter with blue-white eyes, who asked what part of the fowl he would prefer, Jimmie said:
"The second joint."
The waiter frowned and went away. Presently he came back and asked
Jimmie over again, and again Jimmie said, "The second joint."
He went away and came back with a fine cut of beef.
"What's this?" said Jimmie. "I ordered chicken."
"Yes, sir!" said the waiter, mopping his brow, "What part would you like, sir?"
"The second joint," said Jimmie, with ominous distinctness. "That is if English chickens grow any."
"Yes, sir, yes, sir," said the poor waiter.