Galloping Dick
I laid down my knife, took a draught of wine, and “Sir,” says I, observing him in a friendly way, “for a townsman, as I should interpret you, you show a lively appetite.” For there was he filling his belly with the meats in a greedy, hasty fashion, and never so much as a glance at me, or a civil by-your-leave.
At that he turned sharply, stared at me for an instant with a scowl, and then seeming very lumpish, “No better than your own,” says he in a surly voice.
“Why, for myself,” says I pleasantly, “I make no boast of an old maid’s appetite. I can use a knife and platter with my fellows. But there is appetite,” said I with emphasis, “and there is a ranting, roaring belly; and the one I should think shame of, save under sore needs.”
“You are scarce civil,” says he, with a sour face on him, and shortly, as one who would be at no trouble to pick up a quarrel or pass a pat rejoinder. But I was in no humour to be thus put down.
“Why, then,” said I, “to be civil is to sit
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