and established a post of observation behind it.

His cold counsellor was in the act of choosing a soft chop from
the dish--an act accompanied by a great deal of prying and poking
with that gentleman's own fork. My disillusioned compatriot had
pushed away his plate; he sat with his elbows on the table,
gloomily nursing his head with his hands. His companion watched
him and then seemed to wonder--to do Mr. Simmons justice--how he
could least ungracefully give him up. "I say, Searle,"--and for
my benefit, I think, taking me for a native ingenuous enough to
be dazzled by his wit, he lifted his voice a little and gave it
an ironical ring--"in this country it's the inestimable privilege
of a loyal citizen, under whatsoever stress of pleasure or of
pain, to make a point of eating his dinner."

Mr. Searle gave his plate another push. "Anything may happen now.
I don't care a straw."

"You ought to care. Have another chop and you WILL care. Have
some better tipple. Take my advice!" Mr. Simmons went on.

My friend--I adopt that name for him--gazed from between his two
hands coldly before him. "I've had enough of your advice."

"A little more," said Simmons mildly; "I shan't trouble you
again. What do you mean to do?"

"Nothing."

"Oh come!"