ing for the world that feeds us, clothes us, keeps us in
luxury. We will spend our whole existence knocking balls about, watching
other people knocking balls about, arguing with one another as to the
best means of knocking balls about."

Is it "Playing the Game?"

Is it--to use their own jargon--"playing the game?"

And the queer thing is this over-worked world, that stints itself to keep
them in idleness, approves of the answer. "The flannelled fool," "The
muddied oaf," is the pet of the people; their hero, their ideal.

But maybe all this is mere jealousy. Myself, I have never been clever at
knocking balls about.

CHAPTER X

Patience and the Waiter.

The slowest waiter I know is the British railway refreshment-room waiter.

His very breathing--regular, harmonious, penetrating, instinct as it is
with all the better attributes of a well-preserved grandfather's
clock--conveys suggestion of dignity and peace. He is a huge, impressive
person. There emanates from him an atmosphere of Lotusland. The
otherwise unattractive refreshment-room becomes an oasis of repose amid
the turmoil of a fretful world. All things conspire to aid him: the
ancient joints, ranged side by side like corpses in a morgue, each one
decently hidden under its white muslin shroud, whispering of death and
decay; the dish of dead flies, thoughtfully placed in the centre of the
table; the framed advertisements extolling the virtues of heavy beers and
stouts, of weird champagnes, emanating from haunted-looking chateaux,
situate--if one may judge from the illustration--in the midst of desert
lands; the sleep-inviting buzz of the bluebottles.

The spirit of the place steals over you. On entering, with a quarter of
an hour to spare, your idea was a cutlet and a glass of claret. In the
face of the refreshment-room waiter, the notion appears frivolous, not to
say un-English. You order cold beef and pickles, with a pint of bitter
in a tankard. To win the British waiter's approval, you must always
order beer in a tankard. The British waiter, in his ideals, is mediaeval.
There is a Shakespearean touch about a tankard. A soapy potato will, of
course, be added. Afterwards a ton of cheese and a basin of rabbit's
food floating in water (the British salad) will be placed before you. You
will work steadily through the whole, anticipating the somnolence that
will subsequently fall upon you with a certain amount of satisfaction. It