“Well now,” said the waiter, in a tone of confidence, “what would you like for dinner? Young gentlemen likes poultry in general: have a fowl!”
I told him, as majestically as I could, that I wasn’t in the humour for a fowl.
“Ain’t you?” said the waiter. “Young gentlemen is generally tired of beef and mutton: have a weal cutlet!”
I assented to this proposal, in default of being able to suggest anything else.
“Do you care for taters?” said the waiter, with an insinuating smile, and his head on one side. “Young gentlemen generally has been overdosed with taters.”
I commanded him, in my deepest voice, to order a veal cutlet and potatoes, and all things fitting; and to inquire at the bar if there were any letters for Trotwood Copperfield, Esquire—which I knew there were not, and couldn’t be, but thought it manly to appear to expect.
He soon came back to say that there were none (at which I was much surprised) and began to lay the cloth for my dinner in a box by the fire. While he was so engaged, he asked me what I would take with it; and on my replying “Half a pint of sherry,” thought it a favourable opportunity, I am afraid, to extract that measure of wine from the stale leavings at the bottoms of several small decanters. I am of this opinion, because, while I was reading the newspaper, I observed him behind a low wooden partition, which was his private apartment, very busy pouring out of a number of those vessels into one, like a chemist and druggist making up a prescription. When the wine came, too, I thought it flat; and it certainly had more English crumbs in it, than were to be expected in a foreign wine in anything like a pure state, but I was bashful enough to drink it, and say nothing.