have been down yet. He'd never have riz of his own accord, not with them
biscuits in him. And as for his pie! the mate ate one of them bakeshop
paper plates one time, thinking 'twas under crust; and he kept sayin'
how unusual tender 'twas, at that. Now, what good was education to that
cook? Why--"

"Cut it out!" says Peter T., disgusted. "Who's talking about cooks?
These fellers ain't cooks--they're--"

"I know. They're waiters. Now, there 'tis again. When I give an order
and there's any back talk, I want to understand it. You take a passel of
college fellers, like you want to hire for waiters. S'pose I tell one
of 'em to do something, and he answers back in Greek or Hindoo, or such.
_I_ can't tell what he says. I sha'n't know whether to bang him over the
head or give him a cigar. What's the matter with the waiters we had last
year? They talked Irish, of course, but I understood the most of that,
and when I didn't 'twas safe to roll up my sleeves and begin arguing.
But--"

"Oh, ring off!" says Peter. "Twenty-three!"

And so they had it, back and forth. I didn't say nothing. I knew how
'twould end. If Peter T. Brown thought 'twas good judgment to hire a
mess of college boys for waiters, fellers who could order up the squab
in pigeon-English and the ham in hog-Latin, I didn't care, so long as
the orders and boarders got filled and the payroll didn't have growing
pains. I had considerable faith in Brown's ideas, and he was as set on
this one as a Brahma hen on a plaster nest-egg.

"It'll give tone to the shebang," says he, referring to the hotel; "and