As the cattlemen passed Bill Wrenn and Morton, shouting affectionate good-bys in English or courteous Yiddish, Bill commented profanely to Morton on the fact that the solid stone floor of the great shed seemed to have enough sea-motion to “make a guy sick.” It was nearly his last utterance as Bill Wrenn. He became Mr. Wrenn, absolute Mr. Wrenn, on the street, as he saw a real English bobby, a real English carter, and the sign, “Cocoa House. Tea Id.”
England!
“Now for some real grub!” cried Morton. “No more scouse and willow-leaf tea.”
Stretching out their legs under a table glorified with toasted Sally Lunns and Melton Mowbrays, served by a waitress who said “Thank you” with a rising inflection, they gazed at the line of mirrors running Britishly all around the room over the long lounge seat, and smiled with the triumphant content which comes to him whose hunger for dreams and hunger for meat-pies are satisfied together.
CHAPTER V
HE FINDS MUCH QUAINT ENGLISH FLAVOR
Big wharves, all right. England sure is queen of the sea, heh? Busy town, Liverpool. But, say, there is a quaint English flavor to these shops…. Look at that: ‘Red Lion Inn.’… ‘Overhead trams’ they call the elevated. Real flavor, all right. English as can be…. I sure like to wander around these little shops. Street crowd. That’s where you get the real quaint flavor.”
Thus Morton, to the glowing Mr. Wrenn, as they turned into St. George’s Square, noting the Lipton’s Tea establishment. Sir Thomas Lipton—wasn’t he a friend of the king? Anyway, he was some kind of a lord, and he owned big society racing-yachts.
In the grandiose square Mr. Wrenn prayerfully remarked, “Gee!”
“Greek temple. Fine,” agreed Morton.
“That’s St. George’s Hall, where they have big organ concerts,” explained Mr. Wrenn. “And there’s the art-gallery across the Square, and here’s the Lime Street Station.” He had studied his Baedeker as club women study the cyclopedia. “Let’s go over and look at the trains.”