There was nothing for it but to give him up as a bad job, and go to bed. Which I did; and awoke next morning in a forgiving mood.
It was always a scramble at breakfast on Saturdays at Draven’s to see who could get nearest to the ham, for we sickened of the cold mutton they gave us on other days. This morning, to my gratification, I was “well up.” That is, there were only two fellows before me, so that at any rate I was good for a fair, straight slice from the middle.
“Huzza!” said I, crowding up to Williams, who was next above me. “I’ve never had anything but knuckle all this—”
Williams faced round as he heard my voice; and then, without waiting to hear the end of my sentence, got up and took a seat at the lower end of the table.
“Poor beggar’s out of sorts,” said I to myself. “Another of his bilious attacks, I suppose,” I added, moving up to his seat and addressing the proud occupant of the carver’s chair. This fellow was Harrison, whom, next to Browne, we counted the oiliest fellow at Draven’s. He could sing, and make puns, and though a long way behind Browne, was a popular, jovial companion.
He appeared not to hear my remark, but, hitching his chair a little away, began deliberately to carve a slice of ham.
He took a long time about it, and I watched him patiently till he was done. It was a prime ham, I could see, and, ashamed as I am to confess it, it made me feel amiable to all the world to find it was so.
“If they were all like this—” I began.
“There’s room here, Harrison, old man,” Williams called up the table.
Whereupon Harrison, plate in hand, went down to keep Williams company, leaving me for the first time in my life “top-hammer.”