|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 70
His eyes had become so accustomed to the gloom of the church, that
they were dazed when he got out into the full light of day, and he
felt confused and ashamed of himself, as though people were staring at
him. He hurried along, still in dread of the archdeacon, till he came
to Charing Cross, and then remembered that in one of his passages
through the Strand he had seen the words "Chops and Steaks" on a
placard in a shop window. He remembered the shop distinctly; it was
next door to a trunk-seller's, and there was a cigar shop on the other
side. He couldn't go to his hotel for dinner, which to him hitherto
was the only known mode of dining in London at his own expense; and,
therefore, he would get a steak at the shop in the Strand. Archdeacon
Grantly would certainly not come to such a place for his dinner.
He found the house easily,--just as he had observed it, between the
trunks and the cigars. He was rather daunted by the huge quantity
of fish which he saw in the window. There were barrels of oysters,
hecatombs of lobsters, a few tremendous-looking crabs, and a tub full
of pickled salmon; not, however, being aware of any connection between
shell-fish and iniquity, he entered, and modestly asked a slatternly
woman, who was picking oysters out of a great watery reservoir,
whether he could have a mutton chop and a potato.
The woman looked somewhat surprised, but answered in the affirmative,
and a slipshod girl ushered him into a long back room, filled with
boxes for the accommodation of parties, in one of which he took his
seat. In a more miserably forlorn place he could not have found
himself: the room smelt of fish, and sawdust, and stale tobacco smoke,
with a slight taint of escaped gas; everything was rough and dirty,
and disreputable; the cloth which they put before him was abominable;
the knives and forks were bruised, and hacked, and filthy; and
everything was impregnated with fish. He had one comfort, however:
he was quite alone; there was no one there to look on his dismay; nor
was it probable that anyone would come to do so. It was a London
supper-house. About one o'clock at night the place would be lively
enough, but at the present time his seclusion was as deep as it had
been in the abbey.
In about half an hour the untidy girl, not yet dressed for her evening
labours, brought him his chop and potatoes, and Mr Harding begged for
a pint of sherry. He was impressed with an idea, which was generally
prevalent a few years since, and is not yet wholly removed from the
minds of men, that to order a dinner at any kind of inn, without also
ordering a pint of wine for the benefit of the landlord, was a kind of
fraud,--not punishable, indeed, by law, but not the less abominable
on that account. Mr Harding remembered his coming poverty, and
would willingly have saved his half-crown, but he thought he had no
alternative; and he was soon put in possession of some horrid mixture
procured from the neighbouring public-house.
His chop and potatoes, however, were eatable, and having got over
as best he might the disgust created by the knives and forks, he
contrived to swallow his dinner. He was not much disturbed: one
young man, with pale face and watery fishlike eyes, wearing his hat
ominously on one side, did come in and stare at him, and ask the
girl, audibly enough, "Who that old cock was;" but the annoyance went
no further, and the warden was left seated on his wooden bench in
peace, endeavouring to distinguish the different scents arising from
lobsters, oysters, and salmon.
Unknowing as Mr Harding was in the ways of London, he felt that he had
somehow selected an ineligible dining-house, and that he had better
leave it. It was hardly five o'clock;--how was he to pass the time
till ten? Five miserable hours! He was already tired, and it was
impossible that he should continue walking so long. He thought of
getting into an omnibus, and going out to Fulham for the sake of
coming back in another: this, however, would be weary work, and as he
paid his bill to the woman in the shop, he asked her if there were any
place near where he could get a cup of coffee. Though she did keep a
shellfish supper-house, she was very civil, and directed him to the
cigar divan on the other side of the street.
Mr Harding had not a much correcter notion of a cigar divan than he
had of a London dinner-house, but he was desperately in want of rest,
and went as he was directed. He thought he must have made some
mistake when he found himself in a cigar shop, but the man behind the
counter saw immediately that he was a stranger, and understood what he
wanted. "One shilling, sir,--thank ye, sir,--cigar, sir?--ticket for
coffee, sir;--you'll only have to call the waiter. Up those stairs,
if you please, sir. Better take the cigar, sir,--you can always give
it to a friend, you know. Well, sir, thank ye, sir;--as you are so
good, I'll smoke it myself." And so Mr Harding ascended to the divan,
with his ticket for coffee, but minus the cigar.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|