Mr. Bascombe cast a contemplative look at his hands.
"I could do with a wash, couldn't I?" he admitted cheerfully. "Dirty work climbing these hills."
"Oh, we'll soon remedy that, sir!" laughed the landlord. He rang the bell, and an undersized youth with a shock of red hair appeared from somewhere in the back regions.
"T-t-take this gentleman up to Number Six, Albert, and g-get him some hot water. I'll order your lunch, sir," he added. "It will be ready almost as soon as you are."
Ten minutes later, with comparatively clean hands and a superlatively acute appetite, Mr. Bascombe re-entered the coffee-room.
The fat waiter, who was just putting the finishing touches to a small table by the window, looked up as he came in.
"I've laid your lunch 'ere, sir," he remarked. "It's more cheerful like."
Mr. Bascombe regarded the preparations with an approving eye.
"Good lad," he said, seating himself in the comfortable arm-chair set out for him. "This'll just about suit my complaint. Now you bung along and hurry up the cook."
A momentary flicker of surprise illumined the fat waiter's face, but with the true philosophy of his order he recovered himself immediately.