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his becoming disgusted with waiting； and makes an untimely
departure。 At last the enemy retreats； and then Smallweed fetches
Mr Jobling up。
“Well； and how are you？” says Mr Guppy； shaking hands with
him。
“So； so。 How are you？”
Mr Guppy replying that he is not much to boast of； Mr Jobling
ventures on the question； “How is she？” This Mr Guppy resents as
a liberty； retorting； “Jobling； there are chords in the human
mind—” Jobling begs pardon。
“Any subject but that！” says Mr Guppy； with a gloomy
enjoyment of his injury。 “For there are chords； Jobling—” Mr
Jobling begs pardon again。
During this short colloquy； the active Smallweed； who is of the
dinner party； has written in legal characters on a slip of paper；
“Return immediately。” This notification to all whom it may
concern； he inserts in the letter…box； and then putting on the tall
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hat； at the angle of inclination at which Mr Guppy wears his；
informs his patron that they may now make themselves scarce。
Accordingly they betake themselves to a neighbouring dining…
house； of the class known among its frequenters by the
denomination Slap…Bang； where the waitress； a bouncing young
female of forty； is supposed to have made some impression on the
susceptible Smallweed； of whom it may be remarked that he is a
weird changeling； to whom years are nothing。 He stands
precociously possessed of centuries of owlish wisdom。 If he ever
lay in a cradle； it seems as if he must have lain there in a tail…coat。
He has an old； old eye； has Smallweed； and he drinks； and smokes；
in a monkeyish way； and his neck is stiff in his collar； and he is
never to be taken in； and he knows all about it； whatever it is。 In
short； in his bringing up； he has been so nursed by Law and
Equity that he has become a kind of fossil Imp； to account for
whose terrestrial existence it is reported at the public offices that
his father was John Doe； and his mother the only female member
of the Roe family： also that his first long…clothes were made from a
blue bag。
Into the Dining House； unaffected by the seductive show in the
window； of artificially whitened cauliflowers and poultry； verdant
baskets of peas； coolly blooming cucumbers； and joints ready for
the spit； Mr Smallweed leads the way。 They know him there； and
defer to him。 He has his favourite box； he bespeaks all the papers；
he is down upon bald patriarchs； who keep them more than ten
minutes afterwards。 It is of no use trying him with anything less
than a full…sized “bread；” or proposing to him any joint in cut；
unless it is in the very best cut。 In the matter of gravy he is
adamant。
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Conscious of his elfin power； and submitting to his dread
experience； Mr Guppy consults him in the choice of that day’s
banquet； turning an appealing look towards him as the waitress
repeats the catalogue of viands； and saying “What do you take；
Chick？” Chick； out of the profundity of his artfulness； preferring
“veal and ham and French beans—And don’t you forget the
stuffing； Polly；” （with an unearthly cock of his venerable eye）； Mr
Guppy and Mr Jobling give the like order。 Three pint pots of half…
and…half are superadded。 Quickly the waitress returns； bearing
what is apparently a model of the tower of Babel； but what is
really a pile of plates and flat tin dish…covers。 Mr Smallweed；
approving of what is set before him； conveys intelligent benignity
into his ancient eye； and winks upon her。 Then； amid a constant
coming in； and going out； and running about； and a clatter of
crockery； and a rumbling up and down of the machine which
brings the nice cuts from the kitchen； and a shrill crying for more
nice cuts down the speaking…pipe； and a shrill reckoning of the
cost of nice cuts that have been disposed of； and a general flush
and steam of hot joints； cut and uncut； and a considerably heated
atmosphere in which the soiled knives and tablecloths seem to
break out spontaneously into eruptions of grease and blotches of
beer； the legal triumvirate appease their appetites。
Mr Jobling is buttoned up closer than mere adornment might
require。 His hat presents at the rims a peculiar appearance of a
glistening nature； as if it had been a favourite snail promenade。
The same phenomenon is visible on some parts of his coat； and
particularly at the seams。 He has the faded appearance of a
gentleman in embarrassed circumstances； even his light whiskers
droop with something of a shabby air。
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His appetite is so vigorous； that it suggests spare living for some
little time back。 He makes such a speedy end of his plate of veal
and ham； bringing it to a close while his companions are yet
midway in theirs； that Mr Guppy proposes another。 “Thank you；
Guppy；” says Mr Jobling； “I really don’t know but what I will take
another。”
Another being brought； he falls to with great good will。
Mr Guppy takes silent notice of him at intervals； until he is half
way through this second plate and stops to take an enjoying pull at
his pint pot of half…and…half （also renewed）； and stretches out his
legs and rubs his hands。 Beholding him in which glow of
contentment； Mr Guppy says：
“You are a man again； Tony！” “Well； not quite； yet；” says Mr
Jobling。 “Say； just born。”
“Will you take any other vegetables？ Grass？ Peas？ Summer
cabbage？”
“Thank you； Guppy；” says Mr Jobling。 “I really don’t know but
what I will take summer cabbage。”
Order given； with the sarcastic addition （from Mr Smallweed） of
“Without slugs； Polly！” And cabbage produced。
“I am growing up； Guppy；” says Mr Jobling； plying his knife
and fork with a relishing steadiness。
“Glad to hear it。”
“In fact； I have just turned into my teens；” says Mr Jobling。
He says no more until he has performed his task； which he
achieves as Messrs。 Guppy and Smallweed finish theirs； thus
getting over the ground in excellent style； and beating those two
gentlemen easily by a veal and ham and a cabbage。
“Now Small；” says Mr Guppy； “what would you recommend
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