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"I see," says I. "Thirty-six holes a day, eh?" He nods. "And a jack-pot session with the old crowd every evening?" I asks. "Oh, only now and then," says he. "With a few late parties down in the grill?" I goes on. "Not a party," says Babe. "State's dry, you know. No, generally we went into the ballroom evenings and I helped Lucy try out the new steps she was learning."
And anybody inside couldn't very well get out, for the only door is a heavy, iron-studded affair padlocked on the outside and the little window is covered with an ornamental iron grill. Besides, as I edges up closer, I hears talking going on. It sounds like the inside party is grumblin' over something or other. His voice sounds hoarse and indignant, but I can't get what it's all about.
Conde covered Alsace; the Duke of Luxembourg, remaining in Holland, confined himself to burning two large villages Bodegrave and Saammerdam. "There was a grill of all the Hollanders who were in those burghs," wrote the marshal to the Prince of Conde, "not one of whom was let out of the houses.
That tough biltong tasted to me like the tenderest steak that ever came from a grill; the biscuits were ambrosial; the cheese melted in my mouth as butter melts in that of the virtuous; but when the old man finished the quaint picnic by inviting me to accompany him down to the waterside for a drink, I shook my head.
Yet in the old and unregenerate days it used to take all day to do it: the wicked thing that we used to call a comfortable breakfast in the hotel grill room somehow carried one on to about ten o'clock in the morning.
Suddenly from a neighboring door, opening from the men's cafe and grill, there appeared the semi-intoxicated figure of an ostensibly swagger society man, his clothing somewhat awry, an opera-coat hanging loosely from one shoulder, a crush-opera-hat dangling in one hand, his eyes a little bloodshot, his under lip protruding slightly and defiantly, and his whole visage proclaiming that devil-may-care, superior, and malicious aspect which the drunken rake does not so much assume as achieve.
They found a hot breakfast at the Grill, and just as the pitch darkness gave way to a pale streak of dawn, they cut across the campus and reached the hangar. As they switched on the lights, Ernest's beautiful plane seemed to sparkle with preparedness. He went over it bolt by bolt, nuts, screws, wires, and wings passing under his careful and critical eye.
He reminded himself of his hunger, and argued that he did not want anything "fancy." He would go to a grill and order just what he liked, and a lot of it. The "Trocerdilli" was just the place. First of all would come a "short one" not that he needed an appetiser! He imagined himself seated at a table, the cloth startlingly white, the cutlery and glasses reflecting a thousand points of light.
I bet you thought you were coming to the wilderness, didn't you? You Easterners! Think we live in tents and eat jerked venison and maize, huh? Never expected, I bet, to see a twelve-story hotel with separate ice-water faucet in every bathroom and a bath to every room. What'd you think of the Peacock grill, h'm?"
"For your daughter." Made it for his daughter. Will joined the chorus. He couldn't see the box, but he could hear it. "Took me some shiplap nice and dry. Made her tight. No cracks." "No sir." No way. It was four o'clock in the morning. Fluorescent lights cast a bluish glow over wooden booths, plastic covered stools, the grill, and a double doored refrigerator.
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