“Have some lobster?” I said, despairingly. If no one was going to take eel-pie, it was certain my other provisions would not last round. Why hadn’t I taken Mrs Nash’s advice, and had that unlucky dish hot?
“What will you take?” I said to Flanagan.
“Oh, I don’t mind,” replied he, in a resigned manner; “I’ll take a shrimp or two.”
“Have something more than that. Have some lobster?” I said.
“No, thanks,” he replied.
Evidently my good things were not in favour; why, I could not say. Nobody seemed to be taking anything, and Crow was most conspicuously smelling my lobster.
The meal dragged on heavily, with more talk than eating. Every dish came in for its share of criticism; the eel-pie remained uncut, the lobster had lost one claw, but more than half the contents of that was left on Abel’s plate. My penny buns all vanished, that was one ray of comfort.
“Ring the bell for more buns,” said Doubleday, as if he was presiding at his own table.
What was I to do? There were no more, and it was hardly likely Mrs Nash would go for more. Before I could make up my mind, Whipcord had rung a loud peal on the bell, and Mrs Nash in due time appeared.
“More buns, and look sharp, old woman,” said Doubleday.