“One of the bunches is damaged. You must take it and get your friends to help you eat it. Good-bye.”
On the whole, therefore, the spread provided for Mr Rollitt was a respectable one, and not likely to do discredit to his entertainers.
He was installed in the place of honour in the fender, Wally occupying the seat in the passage, the others ranging themselves on either side of the board. They watched their guest’s eye somewhat anxiously, to detect in it any signs of predilection for any particular dish. But he, poor man, was too bewildered by the novel experience he was undergoing to betray any symptoms of appetite.
“What’ll you have?” said Percy, presently.
“Well, if you’ve got a bit of bread and cheese and a drop of something, I don’t mind, thank you kindly.”
This was rather a damper; but Wally was equal to the emergency.
“Have an Abernethy—that’s what Rollitt’s been living on. You’ll like it. We keep a stock in our shop.”
“Only a penny each,” said Ramshaw, explanatorily.
“Better have some jam with it,” said Cottle.
“Like some tea?” inquired D’Arcy, who had charge of the pot, beginning to fill up a mug the size of the slop-basin with the matron’s “extra special.”