The idea smiled even upon the wretched Morris, who was sick with famine. He sped upon his errand, and returned to find John still nursing his foot in the arm-chair.
“What would you like to drink, Johnny?” he inquired soothingly.
“Fizz,” said John. “Some of the poppy stuff from the end bin; a bottle of the old port that Michael liked, to follow; and see and don’t shake the port. And look here, light the fire—and the gas, and draw down the blinds; it’s cold and it’s getting dark. And then you can lay the cloth. And, I say—here, you! bring me down some clothes.”
The room looked comparatively habitable by the time the dinner came; and the dinner itself was good: strong gravy soup, fillets of sole, mutton chops and tomato sauce, roast beef done rare with roast potatoes, cabinet pudding, a piece of Chester cheese, and some early celery: a meal uncompromisingly British, but supporting.
“Thank God!” said John, his nostrils sniffing wide, surprised by joy into the unwonted formality of grace. “Now I’m going to take this chair with my back to the fire—there’s been a strong frost these two last nights, and I can’t get it out of my bones; the celery will be just the ticket—I’m going to sit here, and you are going to stand there, Morris Finsbury, and play butler.”
“But, Johnny, I’m so hungry myself,” pleaded Morris.
“You can have what I leave,” said Vance. “You’re just beginning to pay your score, my daisy; I owe you one-pound-ten; don’t you rouse the British lion!” There was something indescribably menacing in the face and voice of the Great Vance as he uttered these words, at which the soul of Morris withered. “There!” resumed the feaster, “give us a glass of the fizz to start with. Gravy soup! And I thought I didn’t like gravy soup! Do you know how I got here?” he asked, with another explosion of wrath.
“No, Johnny; how could I?” said the obsequious Morris.
“I walked on my ten toes!” cried John; “tramped the whole way from Browndean; and begged! I would like to see you beg. It’s not so easy as you might suppose. I played it on being a shipwrecked mariner from Blyth; I don’t know where Blyth is, do you? but I thought it sounded natural. I begged from a little beast of a schoolboy, and he forked out a bit of twine, and asked me to make a clove hitch; I did, too, I know I did, but he said it wasn’t, he said it was a granny’s knot, and I was a what-d’ye-call-’em, and he would give me in charge. Then I begged from a naval officer—he never bothered me with knots, but he only gave me a tract; there’s a nice account of the British navy!—and then from a widow woman that sold lollipops, and I got a hunch of bread from her. Another party I fell in with said you could generally always get bread; and the thing to do was to break a plate-glass window and get into gaol; seemed rather a brilliant scheme.—Pass the beef.”
“Why didn’t you stay at Browndean?” Morris ventured to inquire.