very much so in those days. Glancing toward the maimed and scarred giant
who stood behind the bar, I found he was gazing at me with a fixed
expression.

"Can I get something to eat? I am very hungry, sir," I said in my
blandest tones.

"Yes, we've, plenty of 'cold' goose, and maybe Pete can pick up
something else for you if he, is sober and in a good humor. Come this
way."

I followed him through a narrow passage-way, which led to a long,
low-ceiled room, along nearly the whole length of which was stretched a
table, around which were placed rough stools for the rough men about
the place.

Pete, the cook; came in and the head of the house turned me over to him,
and returned to his duties behind the bar. From the noise of the uproar
going on, his presence was doubtless needed. Pete set before me a large
roasted wild-goose, not badly cooked, with bread, milk, and the
inevitable cucumber pickles. The knives and forks were not very bright
--in fact, they had been subjected to influences promotive of oxidation;
and the dishes were not free from signs of former use. Nothing could be
said against the tablecloth--there was no tablecloth there. But the
goose was fat, brown, and tender; and a hungry man defers his criticisms
until he is done eating. That is what I did. Pete evidently regarded me
with curiosity. He was about fifty years of age, and had the look of a
man who had come down in the world. His face bore the marks of the
effects of strong drink, but it was not a bad face; it was more weak
than wicked.