And
here comes in the stout head waiter, puffing under a tray of hot
viands--kidneys and a steak, transparent rashers and poached eggs,
buttered toast and muffins, coffee and tea, all smoking hot. The table
can never hold it all. The cold meats are removed to the sideboard--they
were only put on for show and to give us an appetite. And now fall on,
gentlemen all. It is a well-known sporting-house, and the breakfasts are
famous. Two or three men in pink, on their way to the meet, drop in, and
are very jovial and sharp-set, as indeed we all are.
"Tea or coffee, sir?" says head waiter, coming round to Tom.
"Coffee, please," says Tom, with his mouth full of muffin and kidney.
Coffee is a treat to him, tea is not.
Our coachman, I perceive, who breakfasts with us, is a cold beef man.
He also eschews hot potations, and addicts himself to a tankard of ale,
which is brought him by the barmaid. Sportsman looks on approvingly, and
orders a ditto for himself.
Tom has eaten kidney and pigeon-pie, and imbibed coffee, till his little
skin is as tight as a drum; and then has the further pleasure of paying
head waiter out of his own purse, in a dignified manner, and walks out
before the inn-door to see the horses put to. This is done leisurely and
in a highly-finished manner by the hostlers, as if they enjoyed the not
being hurried. Coachman comes out with his waybill, and puffing a fat
cigar which the sportsman has given him.
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