McCOMAS (patronizingly). A potman, eh?

WAITER (with a touch of melancholy, as if recalling a disappointment
softened by time). No, sir: the other bar---your profession, sir. A
Q.C., sir.

McCOMAS (embarrassed). I'm sure I beg your pardon.

WAITER. Not at all, sir. Very natural mistake, I'm sure, sir. I've
often wished he was a potman, sir. Would have been off my hands ever so
much sooner, sir. (Aside to Valentine, who is again in difficulties.)
Salt at your elbow, sir. (Resuming.) Yes, sir: had to support him
until he was thirty-seven, sir. But doing well now, sir: very
satisfactory indeed, sir. Nothing less than fifty guineas, sir.

McCOMAS. Democracy, Crampton!---modern democracy!

WAITER (calmly). No, sir, not democracy: only education, sir.
Scholarships, sir. Cambridge Local, sir. Sidney Sussex College, sir.
(Dolly plucks his sleeve and whispers as he bends down.) Stone ginger,
miss? Right, miss. (To McComas.) Very good thing for him, sir: he
never had any turn for real work, sir. (He goes into the hotel, leaving
the company somewhat overwhelmed by his son's eminence.)

VALENTINE. Which of us dare give that man an order again!

DOLLY. I hope he won't mind my sending him for ginger-beer.

CRAMPTON (doggedly). While he's a waiter it's his business to wait.
If you had treated him as a waiter ought to be treated, he'd have held