"Might I get you a little supper, sir? We 'ave 'am, sir, we 'ave beef,
cold, salmon and cucumber likewise cold, a ditto chicken--"
"That sounds rather a quaint bird," said Ravenslee.
"Yes, sir, very good, sir, chicken an' a nice slice of 'am, sir, say,
and--"
"Thank you, Brimberly, I dined late."
"Why then, sir, a sandwich or so, pray permit me, sir, cut nice an'
thin, sir--"
"Thank you--no."
"Dear, dear! Why then, sir, whisky? Brandy? A lick-your?"
"Nothing."
"A cigar, sir?"
"Hum! Have we any of the Garcias left?"
"Y-yes, sir. Ho, certingly, sir. Shall I--"
"Don't bother, I prefer my pipe; only let me know when we get short,
Brimberly, and we'll order more--or perhaps you have a favourite brand?"
"Brand, sir," murmured Brimberly, "a--er--certingly, sir."
"Good night, Brimberly."
"Good night, sir, but first can't I do--hanything?"
"Oh, yes, you do me, of course. You do me so consistently and well that
I really ought to raise your wages. I'll think about it."
Mr. Brimberly stared, coughed, and fumbled for his whisker, whence his
hand wandered to his brow and hovered there.
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