What a meal it was! I hadn’t tasted such a one since I came to London. Eggs and sardines, lobster and potted meat; coffee and tea, toast, cake, bread-and-butter—it was positively bewildering. And the laughing, and talking, and chaffing that went on, too. Doubleday perfectly astonished me by his talents as a host. He never ceased talking, and yet everybody else talked too; he never ceased partaking, and took care that no one else should either. He seemed to know by the outside of a cup whether it was full or empty, and to be able to see through loaves and dish-covers into everybody’s plate. It would be impossible to say what was not talked about during that wonderful meal. The private affairs of Hawk Street were freely canvassed, and the private affairs of every one of the company were discussed with the most charming frankness. I found myself giving an account of my uncle to the Field-marshal, which confidence he reciprocated by telling me that he was a private in the volunteers (that was why the fellows called him Field-Marshal), and an accountant’s clerk, that his income was fifty pounds a year, that he had saved seven pounds, that he was engaged to a most charming person named Felicia, whom at the present rate of his progress he hoped to marry in about twenty years. Whipcord was discoursing on the points of every racehorse in the calendar to the twins, who had evidently never seen a racehorse; and Daly was telling stories which half choked Crow, and kept us all in fits of laughter. It was a new life to me, this, and no mistake.
“Now then, young Batchelor, walk into those sardines, do you hear?” said our host. “Any more coffee, twins? Pass up those tea-cakes when you’ve helped yourself, Crow. I got them for twopence apiece—not bad, eh? I say, I suppose you’ve heard what’s up in Hawk Street, eh?—jam to the Field-Marshal there. Yes, Harris of the Imports told me: he heard it from Morgan, who knows a fellow who knows old Merrett. Plenty more potted meat in the cupboard; get out some, Batchelor, that’s a good fellow. The fact is—sugar enough in yours, Paddy?—the fact is, the old boy is going to put in a nephew—pass up your cup, Adam, Abel, what’s your name, you with the paper in your button-hole?—what was your mother about when she gave you such idiotic names, both of you? I’d like to give her a piece of my mind!—a nephew or something of the sort—that’ll be the third kid in the last half-year landed in on us—don’t you call that lobster a good one for eighteen pence, Paddy, my boy? Never mind, I’ll let them know I’m not going to train up all their young asses for nothing—hullo! Batchelor, beg pardon, old man; I forgot you were one of them!”
This occasioned a laugh, which made me look very self-conscious; which Doubleday saw, and tried to help me out.
“If they were all like you,” he said, with a patronising smile, “it wouldn’t hurt; but that bull’s-eye chum of yours is a drop too much for an office like ours. Do you know, I believe it’s a fact he’s been in gaol, or something of the sort—try a little vinegar with it, Field-Marshal—capital thing for keeping down the fat. Never saw such a temper, upon my word, did you, Crow? Why, he was nearly going to eat you up this very morning. And the best of it is, he thinks he’s the only fellow in the office who does a stroke of work. Never mind, he’s safe at home for a bit; but, my eye! won’t he be astonished to find Merrett, Barnacle, and Company can get on without him!”
I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. It was rank treason to sit by and listen to all this without putting in a word for my friend; and yet in this company I could not for the life of me make the venture. Indeed, to my shame be it said, with the eyes of my companions upon me, and their laughter in my ears, I even faintly joined in the smile at poor Jack’s expense.
“Is this pleasant chap a friend of yours?” said the Field-Marshal.
“Yes,” said I, rather hesitatingly, “we were at school together, you know.”
I despised myself heart and soul for my cowardice, and for me the rest of the meal passed with little enjoyment.
And when the cloth was cleared away fresh difficulties presented themselves.
“Are you a good hand at whist?” asked Adam, as we stood in front of the fire.