"John, it's beef!" screamed the old lady, starting to her feet and spluttering.
"Damme, so it is!" confirmed her husband, after a bare mouthful. "Hi, you—scoundrel, poisoner, assassin—send the manager here at once."
He waved his napkin in fury, and boots cocked an eye at him curiously.
"Won't you have another try?" he urged. "Be sporty about it. Hang it, it looks like chopped chicken, and it is chopped. I chopped it myself. Have another try. You'll believe it in time if you persevere. It's the first step that counts, you know. I used to be able to say that in French, but—"
He only got so far because the old gentleman had been inarticulate with rage.
"Fetch the manager, and don't dare utter another word, confound you!" he shouted.
A few moments later our friend Mr. Gunthorpe entered. His eyes were bright, and a satisfied smile rested on his lips.
"Good evening, sir," he began affably. "I believe you sent for me. I hope everything is to your taste?"
"Everything is nothing of the sort, sir!" retorted the old gentleman. "You have attempted a gross fraud upon us, sir. I find on the menu, chicken, and it is nothing more nor less than chopped beef. And 'peptonized'—peptonized be hanged, sir! It's no more peptonized than my hat!"
"Well, sir, as for your hat I can say nothing, but—"