"Come in nice and 'andy, tho'," said Joe.
Joe's place of business was a frame house with walls of canvas. He had
named it the "Duke of York's Restuarant." The spelling was his; so, too,
was the sign-writing.
He was a man of uncertain temper. One day a hungry guest asked for more
beef. Joe thought this unreasonable, and thus addressed the man:
"Yore twist do give yer nerve. 'Ere, tike the bloomin' lot!" With that
he hurled the round of beef full at the hungry man's head; it missed him
and passed out through the canvas wall. Joe glared at his damaged
property for a space, and then in a loud voice made it known to the rest
of us that "Beef's off."
On another occasion a boarder declined to partake of a doubtful-looking
meat concoction which Joe declared was "frickerdells."
"Wot, yer don't like 'em, don't yer?"
"No."
"Won't eat 'em, won't yer?"
"No."
We all held our breath, wondering what manner of assault Joe would
select for this reckless fellow.
But Joe grinned, actually grinned, and replied: "I don't blame yer; I
wot makes 'em wouldn't touch 'em; no, not for a fortune."
One Saturday afternoon I happened to be passing through the yard when
Joe was discussing with his handy-man, Sammy, the Sunday lunch. (Sammy
was an Indian, and in Africa all Indians are "Sammy" to all men.)
"'Ow many dead chickens are there, Sammy?"
"Fourteen, Boss."
"'Ell! 'Ow many died yesterday and 'ow many did yer find dead this
mornin'?"
"Eight yesterday and six to-day, Boss."
"Well, we'll curry the eight and roast the six."
On Sunday I refused curry and roast fowl. Joe asked why. I told him.
"Blokes wot 'ang around the cook-'ouse door 'ears things an' sees things
o' times wot puts 'em off their grub. 'Ave some bully?"