By now our paymaster was as hot as a hornet. His gorge rose--his
freeborn, independent American gorge. It rose clear to the ceiling
and threw off sparks and red clinkers. He sent for the manager.
The manager came, all bows and graciousness and rumply shirtfront;
and when he heard what was to be said he became all apologies and
indignation. He regretted more than words could tell that the
American gentlemen who deigned to patronize his restaurant had
been put to annoyance. The garcon--here he turned and burned up
that individual with a fiery sideglance--was a debased idiot and
the misbegotten son of a yet greater and still more debased idiot.
The cashier was a green hand and an imbecile besides. It was
incredible, impossible, that the overcharging had been done
deliberately; that was inconceivable. But the honor of his
establishment was at stake. They should both, garcon and cashier,
be discharged on the spot. First, however, he would rectify all
mistakes. Would monsieur intrust the miserable addition to him
for a moment, for one short moment? Monsieur would and did.
This time the amount was made right and our friend handed over in
payment a fifty-franc note. With his own hands the manager brought
back the change. Counting it over, the payee found it five francs
short. Attention being directed to this error the manager became
more apologetic and more explanatory than ever, and supplied the
deficiency with a shiny new five-franc piece from his own pocket.
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