This appeared to settle the point, and as soon as the play was over, he returned to the inn, anticipating how much better the salmon would be than the London pickle. The cloth was duly spread, and a covered dish placed before him. "Supper, sir quite ready, sir," said the waiter, whisking away the cover, and presenting to his sight a mutton cutlet. "You'll find this excellent, sir." "No doubt; but I ordered pickled salmon!" "I beg your pardon, sir, did you, sir?" (with a slight appearance of confusion.) "Did I! Yes, to be sure I did. Do you mean to say you do not recollect it?" "I may have forgotten it, sir; I suppose I _have_ forgotten it, sir." "Well, it does not matter much; I can make a supper of this. But don't forget to let me have some pickled salmon to-morrow evening." "Certainly not, sir," was the waiter's answer; and so the matter ended for that night. On the following evening, Grimaldi invited the manager, at the close of the performances, to go home and sup with him, which he willingly did. As on the preceding evening, the meal was prepared and awaiting their arrival. Down they sat, and upon the removal of the cover, a rump-steak presented itself. A good deal surprised, he said to the waiter, "What's this! have you forgotten the pickled salmon again?" "Why, really, sir, dear me!" hesitated the man, "I believe I have I really fancied you said you would have beef to-night, sir. To-morrow night, sir, I'll take care that you have some." "Now, mind that you _do_ remember it, for to-morrow is the last day I shall be here, and I have a particular wish to taste some before I leave the town." "Depend upon me, sir, you shall certainly have some to-morrow, sir," said the waiter. The manager preferred meat, so it was no great matter, and they took their hot supper very comfortably. There was a crowded audience next night, which was Grimaldi's benefit and the last of his performance. He played Acres and Clown, received the cash, bade farewell to the manager, and hurried to his inn, greatly fatigued by his performance, and looking forward with much pleasure to the pickled salmon. "All right to-night, waiter?" he inquired. "_All_ right to-night, sir," said the waiter, rubbing his hands. "Supper is quite ready, sir." "Good! Let me have my bill to-night, because I start early in the morning." Grimaldi turned to the supper-table: there was a dish, with a cover; the waiter removed it with a flourish, and presented to his astonished eyes--not the long-expected pickled salmon, but a veal-cutlet. These repeated disappointments were rather too much, so he pulled the bell with great vehemence and called for the landlord.