He moved his book, keeping his finger in the place, and she set down the
plate. Next she brought the appurtenances one by one, the butter,
coffee, and so on. The old mahogany sideboard yielded knife, fork, and
spoon; salt and pepper; from the right-hand drawer, a fresh napkin.
These placed, she studied them, racked her brains a moment and, from
across the table--

"Is there anything else?"

Mr. Queed's eye swept over his equipment with intelligent quickness. "A
glass of water, please."

"Oh!--Certainly."

Sharlee poured a glass from the battered silver pitcher on the
side-table--the one that the Yankees threw out of the window in May,
1862--and duly placed it. Mr. Queed was oblivious to the little
courtesy. By this time he had propped his book open against the plate of
rolls and was reading it between cuts on the steak. Beside the plate he
had laid his watch, an open-faced nickel one about the size of a
desk-clock.

"Do you think that is everything?"

"I believe that is all."

"Do you remember me?" then asked Sharlee.

He glanced at her briefly through his spectacles, his eyes soon
returning to his supper.