No, I certainly did _not_ order Irish Stew; but as you have now
brought it, and I have been waiting a quarter of an hour for a cut
from the joint, I prefer to take it.
This room is very stuffy and crowded. Is that purple-faced gentleman
in the corner suffering from an apoplectic stroke?
No; but _he_ has been waiting _half_ an hour for the Irish Stew which
I have just annexed. He seems angry about it.
Waiter, would you try not to kick my chair and knock the back of my
head every time you pass with a dish?
Yes, I know it's a narrow gangway, and that everybody in this dark and
confined crib which you call a City Restaurant is cramped for room;
still, I _do_ object to collisions between my best hat and somebody
else's victuals.
Would you mind talking to me in the Deaf and Dumb Alphabet? In this
maddening clatter it is impossible to hear a word you say.
That young man three from me is evidently training as the Champion
Express Eater of the World. He has got through joint, potatoes,
rhubarb tart, and Cheddar cheese in seven minutes, and is now putting
on his hat to go.