he accepted the name cheerfully and laid it to a racial mental deficiency
of the 'melicans. Now he decided to make a selection himself.

"Vely well. Bleef steak and hlam'neggs."

"Fried potatoes done brown, John."

"Flied plotatoes. Tea or cloffee?"

"Coffee," decided Dave for both of them. "Warm mine."

"And custard pie," added Bob. "Made from this year's crop."

"Aigs sunny side up," directed his friend.

"Fry mine one on one side and one on the other," Hart continued
facetiously.

"Vely well." Hop Lee's impassive face betrayed no perplexity as he
departed. In the course of a season he waited on hundreds of wild men
from the hills, drunk and sober.

Dave helped himself to bread from a plate stacked high with thick slices.
He buttered it and began to eat. Hart did the same. At Delmonico's nobody
ever waited till the meal was served. Just about to attack a second
slice, Dave stopped to stare at his companion. Hart was looking past his
shoulder with alert intentness. Dave turned his head. Two men, leaving
the restaurant, were paying the cashier.

"They just stepped outa that booth to the right," whispered Bob.