“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.