mariposis) of Lake Wissanotti.

The Saturday after that circular hit the city in July, there were men
with fishing rods and landing nets pouring in on every train, almost
too fast to register. And if, in the face of that, a few little drops
of whiskey were sold over the bar, who thought of it?

But the caff! that, of course, was the crowning glory of the thing,
that and the Rats' Cooler below.

Light and cool, with swinging windows open to the air, tables with
marble tops, palms, waiters in white coats--it was the standing
marvel of Mariposa. Not a soul in the town except Mr. Smith, who knew
it by instinct, ever guessed that waiters and palms and marble tables
can be rented over the long distance telephone.

Mr. Smith was as good as his word. He got a French Chief with an
aristocratic saturnine countenance, and a moustache and imperial that
recalled the late Napoleon III. No one knew where Mr. Smith got him.
Some people in the town said he was a French marquis. Others said he
was a count and explained the difference.

No one in Mariposa had ever seen anything like the caff. All down
the side of it were the grill fires, with great pewter dish covers
that went up and down on a chain, and you could walk along the row
and actually pick out your own cutlet and then see the French marquis
throw it on to the broiling iron; you could watch a buckwheat pancake
whirled into existence under your eyes and see fowls' legs devilled,
peppered, grilled, and tormented till they lost all semblance of the
original Mariposa chicken.