spelled and frequently tasting as pronounced.

As one who had primed himself for a pound or so of the rib-roast
section of a grass-fed steer, I was not to be put off with one of the
critter's spare parts, as it were. Nor did the thought of codfish, and
especially boiled codfish, appeal to me greatly. I have no settled
antipathy to the desiccated tissues of this worthy deep-sea voyager
when made up into fish cakes. Moreover that young and adolescent
creature, commonly called a Boston scrod, which is a codfish whose
voice is just changing, is not without its attractions; but the
full-grown species is not a favourite of mine.

To me there has ever been something depressing about an adult codfish.
Any one who has ever had occasion to take cod-liver oil--as who,
unhappily, has not?--is bound to appreciate the true feelings that
must inevitably come to a codfish as he goes to and fro in the deep
for years on a stretch, carrying that kind of a liver about with him
all the while.

As a last resort I took the jugged hare; but jugged hare was not what
I craved. At eventide, returning to the same restaurant, I was
luckier. I found mutton on the menu; but, even so, yet another hard
blow awaited me. By reason of the meat-rationing arrangements a single
purchaser was restricted to so many ounces a week, and no more. The
portion I received in exchange for a corner clipped off my meat card
was but a mere reminder of what a portion in that house would have
been in the old days.

There had been a time when a sincere but careless diner from up
Scotland way, down in London on a visit, would have carried away more