"Here's luck to 'em!" he remarked generously.
As he drank the toast the fat waiter re-entered bearing a well-laden tray, which he put down on the neighbouring table.
"Ah! Here's your lunch, sir," said the landlord. "I told them to send you up the c-c-cold tart and a bit of cheese as well. I thought you'd be able to manage a square meal after your walk."
"You thought correct," said Mr. Bascombe gratefully.
The waiter deposited a dish in front of him, and removed the cover. From a large steak, crowned with little brown curls of onion, a most exquisite flavour mounted into the air. Mr. Bascombe reverently transferred the entire pile to his own plate, and then helped himself to a majestic hoard of chipped potatoes.
"You're sure you've got everything you want, sir?" inquired the landlord with unintentional sarcasm.
His guest gazed meditatively round the table,
"Well, I think we might say a cigar, and a glass of port wine to top up with," he observed. "No hurry about 'em."
"I'll bring them in, sir, if you'll just tell the waiter when you're ready."
"Right-o," murmured Mr. Bascombe, lifting a huge forkful to his mouth.