Tom had revisited the stable, fed the mare, seen his bedroom, opened the window, drawn the stuffy blue check curtains, stared up the street, examined the portrait of Madame Cake, and thought how the light, tasteful spirit of French elegance must have shuddered at the harsh matter-of-factlocking cap and brown silk gown in which she was daubed, ere the bump of the tray against the weak door announced that it was about time to take his seat the oaths at a dinner of this sort are frequently taken after. Having deposited the little basin of mutton broth before Tom, Cake, with a napkin-covered thumb, lifted the little delf lid off with the flourish of a man uncovering a glittering tureen of many hundred ounces weight. "What wine will you please to take, sir?" asked he, giving the hock glass a push against the other two to draw Tom's attention to their presence. It's a fearful thing when a man's consequence entails a variety of wine-glasses upon him at an inn. Had Tom brought Sleekpow, he would have attributed the misfortune to him, concluding he had been telling where they had come from. As it was, he was obliged to put it down to the superior refinement of his host over himself. Indeed, we know men who keep servants to teach them what they ought to do. Tom wouldn't give twopence a gallon for hock, so he humbly replied that he'd take a pint of sherry. "Some of Sir Digby, I s'pose, sir,” replied Cake. “Of course," said Tom; and away he went for the liquid. The mutton broth, or pot barley and water, was execrable; and Tom had dropped the spoon in the plate in despair ere Cake came back rubbing a tiny decanter with a napkin. "You'll find this very fine wine, sir," said he, holding it up to the candle, and smacking his lips as though it were most luscious. He then helped Tom to three quarters of a glass. "Sir Digby always calls this my golden particular," added he, setting it down. A bad dinner and a loquacious waiter are evils that no man can stand jointly; so Tom intimated, by a lateral motion of the spoon in the plate, that he was ready for the "follow," as they say at the Clubs. This was old Cock-a-doodle-doo! If possible, it was worse than the broth, being black, and hard, and dry, and tough,-a very old chanticleer indeed. Cake saw it wouldn't do, and proposed making a grill of it. "Sir Digby was very fond of grills," said he, as if that was enough. Tom didn't care much about it, having an eye to the nice little French dish that was to follow; so he said, "Perhaps you may as well bring in the next dish?" 66 Certainly, sir," replied Cake, whisking away both fowl and plate. The precipitancy of the remove made a gap in the series, and left Tom a little time to speculate on the next "follow." He wondered what it would be,-"Blanquette de veau aux champignons," "Côté de Bauf à la Bonne Femme," or perhaps game dressed in some peculiar way-"Escalopes de Chevreuil," or "Faisan à la Péregueux." "One wouldn't expect French cookery in a house of this sort," observed he, looking at the most perfect public-house appearance of the little parlour and its appurtenances; but there's no saying what one may meet with in this world. Just then somebody threw open the door, and in rushed Cake with a round vegetable dish, encircled in a napkin, clasped in both hands. This he set down with a noise betokening the most perfect confidence in its contents. "Hot plate! hot plate!" exclaimed he, as if a moment's delay might be fatal to the feast. He lifted the lid, and, lo! four great fat, greasy mutton chops, slightly sprinkled over with bread, appeared. |