“How do you feel, Scott?” asked Laybold, after they had walked till they were tired out, and it was nearly time to go to the landing-place.
“Tired and hungry,” replied the wag. “I wonder if these Swedishers have anything to eat.”
“Probably they do; here’s a place which looks like a restaurant.”
“I feel as though I hadn’t tasted food for four months. Let’s go in.”
They entered the store, which was near the Bourse. A neatly-dressed waiter bowed to them, and Scott intimated that they wanted a lunch. The man who understood English, conducted them to a table, on which a variety of eatables was displayed, some of which had a familiar look, and others were utterly new and strange. The waiter filled a couple of wine-glasses from a decanter containing a light-colored fluid, and placed them before the boys.
“What’s that?” asked Scott, glancing suspiciously at the wine-glass.
“Finkel,” replied the man.
“Exactly so; that’s what I thought it was,” replied Scott, who had never heard of the stuff before. “Is it strong?”
“No,” answered the waiter, shaking his head with a laugh. “Everybody drinks it in Sweden.”
“Then we must, Laybold, for we are somebody.”