“See that, now,” said the waiter, angrily brushing the table, and by a vigorous effort keeping back the fierce retort that was on the leap in his heart.
“Get me my chop.”
“I’ll get it, never fear,” hurrying away.
Percival and his companion overheard this dialogue.
“If I were that waiter,” exclaimed Pommery, “I’d chuck the chop at that insolent fellow’s head.”
“What can the poor wretch do? He’s paid for this sort of thing.”
“He’s not paid to be insulted by a man who, the chances are, considers himself a gentleman.”
“It’s very bad form.”
The waiter returned with the autocrat’s luncheon.
“How dare you bring me a chop cooked in this way? Do you imagine I am in an Irish pig-sty? Send me an English waiter.”