The waiter gave me a disconsolate look and proceeded to gird up his
loins with a base ball belt.

In a few moments he dashed past the window in hot pursuit of a fowl of
venerable appearance, but of a style of going that would have put to
shame any ostrich that Dr. LIVINGSTONE ever saw.

I asked the head waiter if he called that a _Spring Chicken_?

He said he guessed that chicken could out-Spring any chicken in the
place.

This clears up another great hotel mystery.

The man outflanked this gentle birdling on the eighth time round, in
6.23, which is considered very good indeed, and beats the time of the
late Harvard and Yale "Foul" considerably.

I say "outflanked," because it is not the intention of these sunny
Amendments to put an end to these feathery Dexters immediately, but to
drive them into the ten-pin alley, where they are leisurely bowled to an
untimely end. As, however, pony balls are generally used, and there are
always half a dozen darkies standing around ready to bet that the
chicken won't be killed in forty balls, or sixty, as the case may be,
this part of the process is rather tedious to the guest

Sometimes, when the chicken is not very active, there are not more than
nine or ten-pin feathers left.