Yesterday I talked with Bert Rhine. To-day
I talked with him again, and he will never forget, I am certain, the
little talk we had this morning.
To begin with, last evening, at five o'clock, I heard his voice
issuing from between the slits of the ventilator in the after-wall of
the chart-house. Standing at the corner of the house, quite out of
range, I answered him.
"Getting hungry?" I jeered. "Let me tell you what we are going to
have for dinner. I have just been down and seen the preparations.
Now, listen: first, caviare on toast; then, clam bouillon; and
creamed lobster; and tinned lamb chops with French peas--you know,
the peas that melt in one's mouth; and California asparagus with
mayonnaise; and--oh, I forgot to mention fried potatoes and cold pork
and beans; and peach pie; and coffee, real coffee. Doesn't it make
you hungry for your East Side? And, say, think of the free lunch
going to waste right now in a thousand saloons in good old New York."
I had told him the truth. The dinner I described (principally coming
out of tins and bottles, to be sure) was the dinner we were to eat.
Pages:
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543
544
545
546
547
548
549
550
551
552
553
554