“Maybe we better eat first,” he suggested. “It’s a good forty mile, and the road’s a bit rough in spots. What do you say?” This last to nephew Percival.
“What does it matter? What does anything matter?” squeaked Percival.
Dog looked at him, looked at Ducky. Ducky looked at Percival, looked at Dog. It was worse than they had feared.
“Well, if you don’t want to eat, what do you want to do?” Dog asked.
“I want to go back.”
Dog grabbed him by the arm. “That’s the one place you don’t go. We eat.”
He lead the Easterner across the street to the Ideal Cafe, Ducky following, sundry acquaintances staring. They mounted stools at the counter.
“Ducky and I are having ham and eggs. How about you?”
Percival shivered,—perhaps shuddered,—gazing straight into the fly-specked mirror of the back bar.
“I think I shall just have some thin toast, without butter, some bar-le-duc jelly and a pot of oolong tea, very weak.”