A pause. A savoury smell began to come from the frying-pan. The old woman turned her watery, bloodshot eyes to Bertie.
"Who's your friend?"
"Them who don't ask no questions don't get told no lies."
"What's his lay?"
"His lay's hitting old women in the eye; so now you know."
The old woman shook her head, and mourned the decadence of the times.
"Oh, them boys! them boys! When I was a young gal there weren't none of them boys in them there days! Times is changed."
"And this steak's done! Now then, Ikey, make yourself alive and hand the plates."
Without the interposition of a dish the steak was divided in the frying-pan, placed in two equal portions on the plates, and Bertie and the cook fell to.
Epicures have it that a steak fried is a steak spoiled. Neither of those who ate that one would have agreed to the truth of the statement then. From the way in which they disposed of it, a finer, juicier, or more tender steak was never known. The old woman produced a jug of porter to wash it down. Freddy, as the old woman called the thief, did far more justice to this than Bertie did. With the aid of the dark-coloured liquid the whole pound and a half of meat rapidly disappeared, and with it the better part of a loaf as well.