Pendragon. Oh, curse such roads! My bones are making their way out of their sockets—such vile, abominable, detestable—Waiter!—If my friends at Castle Joram only knew the excruciating fatigues which I am undergoing in this barbarous land—Why, waiter!—or if his highness the commander-in-chief was only sensible of my great sacrifices to—Why, waiter! where the devil are you?
Enter Waiter.
Waiter. Here I be, sir.
Pendragon. Why didn't you come when I first called? Do you think I've got lungs like a hunter? I'm fatigued and hungry. Get me an anchovy, a toast, and a bottle of old port.
Waiter. A what, sir? an ancho—
Pendragon. Yes, sir, an anchovy—small ones—delicate.
Waiter. Why, sir, we don't know what these are in this country.
Pendragon. The devil you don't! Then pray, sir, what have you to eat in this damn'd house fit for a gentleman?
Waiter. Why, sir, not much—the army eats us out of house and home. We have some very excellent fresh bear meat, sir.
Pendragon. Bear meat! Why, what the devil, fellow, do you take me for a Chickasaw, or an Esquimau? Bear meat! the honourable captain Pendragon, who never ate anything more gross than a cutlet at Molly's chop-house, and who lived on pigeons' livers at Very's, in Paris, offered bear meat in North America! I'll put that down in my travels.