"Now, I wonder how long Peterby will be?" he said to himself. But
here came the creak of the waiter's boots, and that observant person
reappeared, bearing the various articles which he named in turn as
he set them on the table.
"A bottle of ink, sir; pens and writing-paper, sir; and the Gazette."
"Thank you," said Barnabas, very conscious of his neckcloth still.
"And now, sir," here the waiter coughed into his napkin again,
"now--what will you drink, sir; shall we say port, or shall we make
it sherry?"
"Neither," said Barnabas.
"Why, then, we 'ave some rare old burgundy, sir--'ighly esteemed by
connysoors and (cough again) other--gentlemen."
"No, thank you."
"On the other 'and--to suit 'umbler tastes, we 'ave,"--here the
waiter closed his eyes, sighed, and shook his head--"ale, sir,
likewise beer, small and otherwise."
"Nothing, thank you," said Barnabas; "and you will observe the door
is still where it was."
"Door, sir, yessir--oh, certainly, sir!" said he, and stalked out of
the room.
Then Barnabas set a sheet of paper before him, selected a pen, and
began to write as follows:--
George Inn,
Borough.
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