The idea smiled even upon the wretched Morris, who was sick with famine.

He sped upon his errand, and returned to find John still nursing his

foot in the armchair.

What would you like to drink, Johnny?' he enquired soothingly.

Fizz,' said John. 'Some of the poppy stuff from the end bin; a bottle

of the old port that Michael liked, to follow; and see and don't shake

the port. And look here, light the fire--and the gas, and draw down the

blinds; it's cold and it's getting dark. And then you can lay the cloth.

And, I say--here, you! bring me down some clothes.'

The room looked comparatively habitable by the time the dinner came; and

the dinner itself was good: strong gravy soup, fillets of sole, mutton

chops and tomato sauce, roast beef done rare with roast potatoes,

cabinet pudding, a piece of Chester cheese, and some early celery: a

meal uncompromisingly British, but supporting.

'Thank God!' said John, his nostrils sniffing wide, surprised by joy

into the unwonted formality of grace. 'Now I'm going to take this chair

with my back to the fire--there's been a strong frost these two last

nights, and I can't get it out of my bones; the celery will be just the

ticket--I'm going to sit here, and you are going to stand there, Morris

Finsbury, and play butler.'

'But, Johnny, I'm so hungry myself,' pleaded Morris.

250

The Wrong Box