“What can we have for dinner?” O’Neill inquired.
“Is it dinner? Sure, anything you’d fancy, sir,” said the “odd-boy,” with a nervous briskness that somehow induced disbelief.
“H’m,” said Sir John, remembering the cry of woe that had floated through the air, earlier. “Chops or steaks?”
The “odd-boy” shifted from one foot to the other.
“I’m afeard there’s none in the house, sir,” he said. “ ’Tis the way the butcher——”
“Oh well—cold meat,” O’Neill said, cutting short the butcher’s iniquities.
“Yes, sir—certainly, sir!” said the “odd boy,” and disappeared. There was an interval during which the party admired the view and endeavoured to repress the pangs of hunger. Finally the messenger reappeared.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, nervously. “Cold meat is off, they do be tellin’ me.”
“Well, what can we have?” O’Neill said, losing the finer edge of his patience.
The “odd-boy” grew confidential.