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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
119
"Hog's
food!"
shouted
Robinson,
striking
his
fist
savagely
on
the
table,
"I
tell
you
hog's
food
suits
me
better
than--"
He
stopped
speaking
with
a
sudden
grunt
of
surprise
as
the
waiter
appeared
with
the
question:
"What
may
I
bring
you
for
dinner,
gentlemen?"
"Dinner!"
said
Jones,
after
a
moment
of
silence,
"dinner!
Oh,
anything,
nothing--I
never
care
what
I
eat--give
me
a
little
cold
porridge,
if
you've
got
it,
or
a
chunk
of
salt
pork--anything
you
like,
it's
all
the
same
to
me."
The
waiter
turned
with
an
impassive
face
to
Robinson.
"You
can
bring
me
some
of
that
cold
porridge
too,"
he
said,
with
a
defiant
look
at
Jones;
"yesterday's,
if
you
have
it,
and
a
few
potato
peelings
and
a
glass
of
skim
milk."
There
was
a
pause.
Jones
sat
back
in
his
chair
and
looked
hard
across
at
Robinson.
For
some
moments
the
two
men
gazed
into
each
other's
eyes
with
a
stern,
defiant
intensity.
Then
Robinson
turned
slowly
round
in
his
seat
and
beckoned
to
the
waiter,
who
was
moving
off
with
the
muttered
order
on
his
lips.
"Here,
waiter,"
he
said
with
a
savage
scowl,
"I
guess
I'll
change
that
order
a
little.
Instead
of
that
cold
porridge
I'll
take--um,
yes--a
little
hot
partridge.
And
you
might
as
well
bring
me
an
oyster
or
two
on
the
half
shell,
and
a
mouthful
of
soup
(mock-turtle,
consomme,
anything),
and
perhaps
you
might
fetch
along
a
dab
of
fish,
and
a
little
peck
of
Stilton,
and
a
grape,
or
a
walnut."
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