“No,” responded I, from the foot.
“Then, thank God,” said Jack, and proceeded, after this pious grace, to distribute the cod’s head and shoulders to the hungry multitude.
CHAPTER II.
HOW WE DINED AT JACK GINGER’S.
The history of that cod’s head and shoulders would occupy but little space to write. Its flakes, like the snow-flakes on a river, were for one moment bright, then gone for ever; it perished unpitiably. “Bring hither,” said Jack, with a firm voice, “the leg of pork.” It appeared, but soon to disappear again. Not a man of the company but showed his abhorrence of the Judaical practice of abstaining from the flesh of swine. Equally clear in a few moments was it that we were truly British in our devotion to beef. The sirloin was impartially destroyed on both sides, upper and under. Dire was the clatter of the knives, but deep the silence of the guests. Jerry Gallagher, Jack’s valet-de-chambre, footman, cook, clerk, shoeblack, aide-de-camp, scout, confidant, dun-chaser, bum-defyer, and many other offices in commendam, toiled like a hero. He covered himself with glory and gravy every moment. In a short time a vociferation arose for fluid, and the half-and-half—Whitbread quartered upon Chamyton—beautiful heraldry!—was inhaled with the most savage satisfaction.
“The pleasure of a glass of wine with you, Bob Burke,” said Joe Macgillicuddy, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“With pleasure, Joe,” replied Bob. “What wine do you choose? You may as well say port, for there is no other; but attention to manners always becomes a gentleman.”
“Port, then, if you please,” cried Joe, “as the ladies of Limerick say, when a man looks at them across the table.”