Jackpot Jack: A London Farce - страница 7

But duty called, or rather, hobbled. He needed a crutch. A magnificent, supportive friend, to replace his particularly enthusiastic hopping session. Yet, the siren song of his growling stomach proved too powerful to resist. With a sigh that echoed his inner turmoil, he limped into the nearest establishment, a café that looked as inviting as a damp dishrag but promised salvation in the form of edible sustenance.

Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the aroma of stale coffee and quietness. A waiter, whose smile stretched across his face like an elastic band about to snap, approached with the menu. Jack eyed him with suspicion. This smile, this too-friendly demeanour, reeked of conspiracy! He was convinced the man was a shark in a waistcoat, plotting to foist upon him the most overpriced, or worse, the most questionable offering on the menu. A dish, perhaps, concocted from leftovers scavenged from bins with a dash of something utterly unmentionable.

“Good morning, sir!” the waiter chirped, his voice as bright as a brass button. “What can I get for you?”

Jack, determined to outwit this culinary conman, narrowed his eyes. “Just… just some plain biscuits and tea,” he declared, his voice a masterpiece of wary caution. “Nothing fancy. Nothing… adventurous.”

“Biscuits and tea it is, sir!” The waiter, seemingly unfazed by Jack's apparent paranoia, scribbled on his pad. “Will that be digestive biscuits, rich tea biscuits, shortbread biscuits…?”

“The plainest biscuits you have- nothing “rich”, nothing “digestive”, nothing that might cause…unforeseen consequences?” Jack interrupted with a grimace.

“Nothing plain as it gets, sir!” the waiter responded, the smile not lessening. “Right away!”

Jack watched him go, convinced he had narrowly avoided a culinary catastrophe. He decided the café was a viper's nest- a place where the unsuspecting were lured in with promises of comforting food, only to be subjected to overpriced delicacies. All he needed was a spot of tea and a couple of biscuits – enough to sustain his genius until he could find a proper crutch. His brilliance, after all, required fuel, even if that fuel was as bland and unassuming as a plain biscuit.

Jack, was whiling away a dreary afternoon in “The Crumby Cup,” the name which was, alas, according to him, a tad too accurate. He believed he was nursing a cup of lukewarm tea and gnawing on a biscuit of dubious freshness, his gaze wandering about in that aimless fashion peculiar to the profoundly bored. Solitude, for Jack, was a foe to be vanquished, preferably with a generous helping of conversation, no matter how inane.

His eyes, like a moth drawn to a flickering candle, landed upon a gentleman at the adjacent table. The gentleman, a stout figure with a neatly trimmed beard and an air of quiet observation, seemed, to Jack's addled mind, the perfect target for a bit of idle chatter. Little did Jack suspect that this seemingly unassuming chap was none other than Mr. Grimshaw, the café's proprietor, a man who knew his establishment and its inhabitants as intimately as the wrinkles on his own brow.

“Rather slow service today, wouldn't you say?” Jack began, his voice a touch too loud, like a foghorn in a teacup. Mr. Grimshaw merely nodded, his eyes twinkling with an amusement that Jack, in his blissful ignorance, completely missed.