Soon after the completion of the Roberts Opera House, in Hartford, Conn.,
the Putnam Phalanx held a grand ball within its walls. The music was
exquisite; the prompters the best in the state; the ladies were the most
beautiful and dressy in the land; and all went splendidly, till the supper
was discussed. There had been a misunderstanding about the number for whom
supper was to be prepared, and it was found out, when too late, that there
were a hundred more guests than plates. The supper was spread in the
basement. When the writer went down with friends, the tables, which had
already been twice occupied, presented a disgusting scene--all heaped up
with dirty dishes, debris of "fowl, fish, and dessert," and great
complaint was made by the hungry dancers, while some unpleasant epithets,
and uncomplimentary remarks were hurled at the heads of the innocent
caterers.
With our party were Dr. C., a great joker, and Dr. D., his match.
"If you don't like this fare you can go through into the restaurant," said
one of the waiters. "It is all the same," he added.
We required no second invitation. We did ample justice to the fare
provided, and retired, leaving Dr. C. to bring up the rear. In a half
minute he came running after us, saying,--
"The fellow told me I must pay for the supper in there, extra!"
"Well, what did you tell him?"
"Why, I told him to go to h----."
"Well, you did right; let him go; that is just the place for him."
On another occasion, the dinner not being forthcoming at a hotel where we
dined, the doctor "fell to," and soon demolished the best part of a
blanc-mange pudding before him.
"That, sir, is dessert," politely interrupted the waiter, in dismay at
seeing his dessert so rapidly disappearing.
"No matter," said the doctor, finishing it; "I could eat it if it were the
Great Sahara!"