"O, bother tomorrow! Let's eat, and talk about something else."
"What? Both? Well, now, if that isn't a bit of luck," cried a pleasant voice close behind them, and Mr. George T. Handyside held out his two hands.
"I was feeling kind of lonesome in the hotel, and just strolled out to look at the shops," he rattled on. "Say, can you boys eat a line? Is there any place in London where they know what a planked steak is?"
"Planked steak!" snorted Furneaux. "When you've tasted a porterhouse steak grilled by a master hand you'll never mention any other variety again. Come right along, Mr. Handyside. Tell us fairy tales about God's own country. We're in the right mood to believe anything!"
"But what's this story of another shooting up in Fortescue Square? Is it true?"
Then Furneaux dug him in the ribs.
"This isn't the Wild and Woolly West," he said. "This is London, sir, poor, old, played-out London, whose beefy citizens do nothing but eat, talk cricket or golf, and sleep. If you credit the newspapers, you'll never get us in the right perspective."
Another newspaper boy raced past, bawling loudly.
"All a flam, is it?" said the American quizzically;
"No," said Winter, "it's the truth, and less than the truth. Let's hunt that steak, and we'll season the dish for you."