“Impressed on all my friends,
old boy, that Luton has the best pubs. Rustic charm, good whiskey and friendly
natives,” the military man smiled, sipping his Old Bushmills and glancing
around the small bar.
“What do they say, John?
Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” Sowerbutt replied. The two men were sitting
at a bar table in The Engine in the centre of Luton, Tipper stood near the door
to Bute Street, quietly drinking a pint. “They don’t stick their noses in here
and the landlord’s missus is a top hand in the kitchen. What more do you want?”“You are right, Sorbay. If the meals my man produces are anything to go by, I should send him up here for a few lessons. Remembering some of his exploits in the service, he’d do jolly well with your clientele here."
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