As to Tom, he was ready to go anywhere; so off they
trotted, arm-in-arm, as nimbly as you please; saying to each other what
a quiet street it was to lodge in, and how very cheap, and what an airy
situation.
To see the butcher slap the steak, before he laid it on the block, and
give his knife a sharpening, was to forget breakfast instantly. It was
agreeable, too--it really was--to see him cut it off, so smooth and
juicy. There was nothing savage in the act, although the knife was large
and keen; it was a piece of art, high art; there was delicacy of touch,
clearness of tone, skillful handling of the subject, fine shading. It
was the triumph of mind over matter; quite.
Perhaps the greenest cabbage-leaf ever grown in a garden was wrapped
about this steak, before it was delivered over to Tom. But the butcher
had a sentiment for his business, and knew how to refine upon it. When
he saw Tom putting the cabbage-leaf into his pocket awkwardly, he begged
to be allowed to do it for him; 'for meat,' he said with some emotion,
'must be humoured, not drove.'
Back they went to the lodgings again, after they had bought some eggs,
and flour, and such small matters; and Tom sat gravely down to write at
one end of the parlour table, while Ruth prepared to make the pudding at
the other end; for there was nobody in the house but an old woman (the
landlord being a mysterious sort of man, who went out early in the
morning, and was scarcely ever seen); and saving in mere household
drudgery, they waited on themselves.
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