caff's a quarter."

Full? Full of people?

Well, I should think so! From the time the caff opened at 11 till it
closed at 8.30, you could hardly find a table. Tourists, visitors,
travellers, and half the people of Mariposa crowded at the little
tables; crockery rattling, glasses tinkling on trays, corks popping,
the waiters in their white coats flying to and fro, Alphonse whirling
the cutlets and pancakes into the air, and in and through it all, Mr.
Smith, in a white flannel suit and a broad crimson sash about his
waist. Crowded and gay from morning to night, and even noisy in its
hilarity.

Noisy, yes; but if you wanted deep quiet and cool, if you wanted to
step from the glare of a Canadian August to the deep shadow of an
enchanted glade,--walk down below into the Rats' Cooler. There you
had it; dark old beams (who could believe they were put there a month
ago?), great casks set on end with legends such as Amontillado Fino
done in gilt on a black ground, tall steins filled with German beer
soft as moss, and a German waiter noiseless as moving foam. He who
entered the Rats' Cooler at three of a summer afternoon was buried
there for the day. Mr. Golgotha Gingham spent anything from four to
seven hours there of every day. In his mind the place had all the
quiet charm of an interment, with none of its sorrows.

But at night, when Mr. Smith and Billy, the desk clerk, opened up the
cash register and figured out the combined losses of the caff and the
Rats' Cooler, Mr. Smith would say: