stomach, fidgeting his feelers in a petulant way.

We two took seats near by. At once the silent signal was given
signifying, in the cipher code, "Americans in the house!" And the
_maître d'hôtel_ came to where he rested and, grasping him firmly just
back of the armpits, picked him up and brought him over to us and
invited us to consider his merits. When we had singly and together
declined to consider the proposition of eating him in each of the
three languages we knew--namely, English, bad French, and profane--the
master sorrowfully returned him to his bed.

Presently two other Americans entered and immediately after them a
party of English officers, and then some more Americans. Each time the
boss would gather up the lobster and personally introduce him to the
newcomers, just as he had done in our case, by poking the monster
under their noses and making him wriggle to show that he was really
alive and not operated by clockwork, and enthusiastically dilating
upon his superior attractions, which, he assured them, would be
enormously enhanced if only _messieurs_ would agree forthwith to
partake of him in a broiled state. But there were no takers; and so
back again he would go to his place by the door, there to remain till
the next prospective victim arrived.

We fell into the habit of going to this place in the evenings in order
to enjoy repetitions of this performance while dining. The lobster
became to us as an old friend, a familiar acquaintance. We took to
calling him Jess Willard, partly on account of his reach and partly on
account of his rugged appearance, but most of all because his manager
appeared to have so much trouble in getting him matched with anybody.