Bill and Abraham (called Abe for short) were jolly good fellows of more than average intelligence, and they determined to enjoy their day to the utmost. To this end they had refused to join the mess at dinner, in order that their appetites might be the keener for the viands at the Royal George, to whose hospitable doors they directed their steps upon landing. Both were rigged out in their best togs, and took their seats at a table with the pleasant consciousness that their personal appearance was just about at high water mark.
“Heave us one o’ them programmes, Sally,” said Bill. “A mighty trim lass you are, if I does tell you so.”
“Me name is Lucy, your honor,” replied the buxom waitress with a smirk, as she placed a bill-of-fare before the twain.
“Married?” asked Bill.
“No, sir. I’ve not yet met me fate,” answered Lucy, demurely.
“Crackey! You must be stage-struck.”
“’Vast there, Bill, and quit your foolin’,” interrupted Abe. “I’m ’ungry. Wot will we ’ave?”
He was considerably older than his companion, and had reached that stage in life when not even the charms of a pretty waitress could make him lose sight of the fact that it was past the time for dinner.
It seemed to Abe that their orders would never arrive, so he spent the time in devouring a bottle of little round pickles which occupied the center of the table. Bill kept trying to attract the attention of a golden haired fairy who was opening numerous bottles of ale in another part of the room, and only desisted when Abe remarked: “Seems to me these ’ere pickles are awful salty.”