"There's a new one this week, the Fantan, fifty cents
each, will you have that? Right? Two Fantans. Now to
eat--what would you like?"

"May I have a slice of cold beef and a pint of ale?"

"Beef!" said Knickerbocker contemptuously. "My dear
fellow, you can't have that. Beef is only fifty cents.
Do take something reasonable. Try Lobster Newburg, or
no, here's a more expensive thing--Filet Bourbon a la
something. I don't know what it is, but by gad, sir, it's
three dollars a portion anyway."

"All right," I said. "You order the dinner."

Mr. Knickerbocker proceeded to do so, the head-waiter
obsequiously at his side, and his long finger indicating
on the menu everything that seemed most expensive and
that carried the most incomprehensible name. When he had
finished he turned to me again.

"Now," he said, "let's talk."

"Tell me," I said, "about the old days and the old times
on Broadway."

"Ah, yes," he answered, "the old days--you mean ten years
ago before the Winter Garden was opened. We've been going
ahead, sir, going ahead. Why, ten years ago there was
practically nothing, sir, above Times Square, and look