This corpulent sandwich man was blithely answering the banter of those
who were not awed by the radiance of his headgear and the dignity of his
mien, and passing out printed cards to those nearest him.
“Do all the hundred meals have to be eaten to-day?” asked Dulcet. “If
so, the task is beyond my powers.”
“Like the man in the Bible,” I said, “he probably rented his garments.
But he couldn't rent that admirable abdomen that proclaims him a
well-fed man. It seems to me a very sound ad. for the chophouse.”
“Unquestionably,” said my friend, gravely, “he is the man who put the ad
in adipose.”
The sandwich man, unabashed by these remarks, handed me one of his
cards, which Dulcet and I read together:
_K. Jefferson Gastric, the best-fed man south of 42nd Street, takes this
importunity of urging you to become a steakholder in the Commutation
Chophouse. Why pay for overhead expense? In the Commutation Chophouse
all unnecessaries are discarded and you pay only for food, not for
finger-bowls and a lovely female cashier. No tips. To-day Only, the
Opening Day, to celebrate the jovial Yule, the management will sell
Strip Tickets entitling you to 100 Glorious Meals, for $10._
At this point a policeman politely urged Mr. Gastric to move on, and he
passed genially down Church Street, his resplendent hat glowing above a
trail of followers.
“Come on,” I said; “it's time to eat, anyway. Let's go over to Ann
Street and have a look at this philanthropic venture.”
“Well,” said Dulcet, “since it's your turn to buy, far be it from me to
protest.”
The narrow channel of Ann Street is always crowded at the lunch hour,
but on that occasion it was doubly congested with patrons of the amusing
toyshops. We pushed patiently along, and passing Nassau Street moved
into a darker and shabbier region. A sound of music rose upon the air.
To our surprise, at the entrance to an unsuspected alley stood a fiddler
playing a merry jig. Beside him was another sandwich man, also stout and
well-favoured and in Fifth-Avenue attire, carrying boards which read: