England!

“Now for some real grub!” cried Morton.  “No more scouse and willow-leaf tea.”

Stretching out their legs under a table glorified with toasted Sally Lunns and Melton Mowbrays, served by a waitress who said “Thank you” with a rising inflection, they gazed at the line of mirrors running Britishly all around the room over the long lounge seat, and smiled with the triumphant content which comes to him whose hunger for dreams and hunger for meat-pies are satisfied together.

CHAPTER V

HE FINDS MUCH QUAINT ENGLISH FLAVOR

Big wharves, all right.  England sure is queen of the sea, heh?  Busy town, Liverpool.  But, say, there is a quaint English flavor to these shops....  Look at that:  `Red Lion Inn.’... `Overhead trams’ they call the elevated.  Real flavor, all right.  English as can be....  I sure like to wander around these little shops.  Street crowd.  That’s where you get the real quaint flavor.”

Thus Morton, to the glowing Mr. Wrenn, as they turned into St. George’s Square, noting the Lipton’s Tea establishment. Sir Thomas Lipton—­wasn’t he a friend of the king?  Anyway, he was some kind of a lord, and he owned big society racing-yachts.

In the grandiose square Mr. Wrenn prayerfully remarked, “Gee!”

“Greek temple.  Fine,” agreed Morton.

“That’s St. George’s Hall, where they have big organ concerts,” explained Mr. Wrenn.  “And there’s the art-gallery across the Square, and here’s the Lime Street Station.”  He had studied his Baedeker as club women study the cyclopedia.  “Let’s go over and look at the trains.”

“Funny little boxes, ain’t they, Wrenn, them cars!  Quaint things.  What is it they call ’em—­carriages?  First, second, third class....”

“Just like in books.”

“Booking-office.  That’s tickets....  Funny, eh?”

Mr. Wrenn insisted on paying for both their high teas at the cheap restaurant, timidly but earnestly.  Morton was troubled.  As they sat on a park bench, smoking those most Anglican cigarettes, “Dainty Bits,” Mr. Wrenn begged: 

“What’s the matter, old man?”

“Oh, nothing.  Just thinking.”  Morton smiled artificially.  He added, presently:  “Well, old Bill, got to make the break.  Can’t go on living on you this way.”

“Aw, thunder!  You ain’t living on me.  Besides, I want you to.  Honest I do.  We can have a whole lot better time together, Morty.”

“Yes, but—­Nope; I can’t do it.  Nice of you.  Can’t do it, though.  Got to go on my own, like the fellow says.”

“Aw, come on.  Look here; it’s my money, ain’t it?  I got a right to spend it the way I want to, haven’t I?  Aw, come on.  We’ll bum along together, and then when the money is gone we’ll get some kind of job together.  Honest, I want you to.”

“Hunka.  Don’t believe you’d care for the kind of knockabout jobs I’ll have to get.”