With an air of grave offence the man bears it solemnly out. Then we wait again. And wait. And wait.
"Good gracious!" cries Bunker, "here's half an hour gone, and we've had nothing but soup! I really must blow this fellow up."
"Stop! there it comes."
Enter the waiter with great dignity, and solemnly deposits before us—the fish again!
He has had it recooked. We attack it hurriedly, and bid the waiter for Goodness' sake bring the rest of the dinner instantly, or we must leave it.
"And I'm about half starved," growls Bunker.
More waiting. Five minutes pass. Ten.
"Oh come, I can't stand this!" cries Bunker, jumping up with his napkin round his neck, and striding over to the head-waiter, where he stands in a Turveydroppy attitude, leaning against a sideboard with his arms folded. "Look here!" Bunker ejaculates: "can you be made to understand that we are in a hurry? Would half a dollar be any inducement to you to wake up and look around lively? Because we have got to take those cars in exactly twelve minutes," showing his watch, "and as the dinner is already paid for, I want to get it before I go."
"Certainly, sir," says the pompous ass with slow indifference, "dinner directly. John!" to our waiter, who is now placing the meat on the table, "serve the genl'm'n's dinner directly."
Bunker stares at the fellow as Clown stares at Harlequin after having cut him in two, in dumb amazement at the fact that Harlequin is not in the least disturbed by being cut in two.