It's the after-saloon of the Calais-Dover packet--shortest
route--and I see you two there at table, eating cold roast beef,
underdone, with plain boiled potatoes. With plain boiled
potatoes--yes, and mixed pickles.' He passed a hand over his
eyes. 'Excuse me, gentlemen; the vision is blurred just here--
if someone would kindly shoot that lady on the stage and stop
her--it's not much to ask, when she's exposing so much of her
personality--How the devil can I tell the difference between
mixed pickles and piccalilli while she's committing murder on
the high C? _Passez outre_. . . . I see you eating like men who
haven't seen Christian food for years; yet you are swallowing it
in a hurry that almost defeats the blessed taste; because one of
you has just shouted up, with his mouth full, a command to be
informed as soon as ever the white shore of Albion can be spied
from deck. It is a race with Time--Shakespeare's Cliff against
a pickled onion. . . . Oh, have done! have done!'
"'Thank you, Caffyn,' said I.
Pages:
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218