Greenacre was late for his appointment at the stables; he came in a
suit of black, imperfectly fitting, and a chimney-pot hat some years
old, looking very much like an undertaker's man. His appearance
seemed to prove that he really had attended a funeral, which renewed
Gammon's wonder. As a matter of course they repaired to the nearest
eating-house to have a meal together--an eating-house of the old
fashion, known also as a coffee-shop, which Gammon greatly preferred
to any kind of restaurant. There, on the narrow seats with high
wooden backs, as uncomfortable a sitting as could be desired, with
food before him of worse quality and worse cooked than any but
English-speaking mortals would endure, he always felt at home, and
was pleasantly reminded of the days of his youth, when a supper of
eggs and bacon at some such resort rewarded him for a long week's
toil and pinching. Sweet to him were the rancid odours, delightfully
familiar the dirty knives, the twisted forks, the battered
teaspoons, not unwelcome the day's newspaper, splashed with brown
coffee and spots of grease.
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