In my crude and amateurish way I attacked those eggs, breaking into
them, not with the finesse the finished egg burglar would display, but
more like a yeggman attacking a safe. I spilt a good deal of the
insides of those eggs down over their outsides, producing a most
untidy effect; and when I did succeed in excavating a spoonful I
generally forgot to season it, or else it was full of bits of shell.
Altogether, the results were unsatisfactory and mussy. Rarely have I
eaten a breakfast which put so slight a subsequent strain upon my
digestive processes.

Until noon I hung about, preoccupied and surcharged with inner
yearnings. There were plenty of things--important things, too, they
were--that I should have been doing; but I couldn't seem to fix my
mind upon any subject except food. The stroke of midday found me
briskly walking into a certain restaurant on the Strand that for many
decades has been internationally famous for the quality and the
unlimited quantity of its foods, and more particularly for its beef
and its mutton. If ever you visited London in peacetime you must
remember the place I mean.

The carvers were middle-aged full-ported men, with fine ruddy
complexions, and moustaches of the Japanese weeping mulberry or
mammoth droop variety. On signal one of them would come promptly to
you where you sat, he shoving ahead of him a great trencher on
wheels, with a spirit lamp blazing beneath the platter to keep its
delectable burden properly hot. It might be that he brought to you a
noble haunch of venison or a splendid roast of pork or a vast leg of
boiled mutton; or, more likely yet, a huge joint of beef uprearing
like a delectable island from a sea of bubbling gravy, with an edging
of mashed potatoes creaming up upon its outer reefs.