No person ever wants to tell us again how to save two shillings. When we
started for Chippewa Falls, to attend the celebration, we only had a few
hundred dollars along, and we felt like saving all that was possible. Just
before arriving at Sparta, where we were to take supper, Dan McDonald got
to telling about how to save twenty-five cents on meals at these eating
houses, when traveling. He said that all you had to do when you come out
from supper was to look like a bummer, or "traveling man," hand the
door-keeper fifty cents and wink twice with the left eye, and he would
pass you right out, as though you had paid seventy-five cents. If you
handed out a dollar bill, and he only gave you back twenty-five cents, you
only had to hold out your hand and wink a couple of times, and the man
would give you the other quarter. Dan said he always did that way, and he
had saved hundreds of dollars. He said these bummers only paid fifty cents
a meal, and there was no use of anybody else paying more, if they had
cheek enough to play it on the landlord.
[Illustration: "OH, THAT WILL BE ALL RIGHT!"]
We never had anything strike us any more reasonable than the statement of
Mr. McDonald, and we determined to try it. To a man who was traveling a
good deal lecturing, a saving of twenty-five cents a meal was worth
looking into, and we made up our mind to begin to economize that very
night. The train stopped and we walked across the platform as near like a
bummer as possible. With our hat on one side, we threw a cigar stub into
the parlor window, said "Hello, old tapeworm," to the landlord in a
familiar sort of way, chucked our hat into a chair; rushed into the
dining-room, took a seat at the head of the table, and told a girl to cart
out all she had got. The landlord looked at us as though he thought we
were one of Field, Leiter & Co.'s bummers, his good wife looked
frightened, as though she feared we would kick a leg off the table and
spill things. However, there is no use of describing the meal, and how we
went through brook trout and strawberry shortcake, and things. We couldn't
help feeling sorry for the man that was destined to furnish all that for
fifty cents. Finally we went out. We felt a sort of palpitation of the
heart when we approached the hungry-looking man at the door, taking the
money. He looked as though he was a sick orphan trying to save money
enough to get to a water cure. Picking our teeth with our finger, like a
Chicago bummer, and pulling our handkerchief out of our pistol pocket and
blowing our nose like a thirty-two pounder, just as we had heard a Chicago
fellow do, we handed the man fifty cents, winked a couple of times and
started to go by. The tobacco sign standing there said, "twenty-five cents
more, please." We looked at him, winked, and said, "O, that will be all
right." "Two shillings more, my friend," said the summer resort. We winked
some more, and punched him in the ribs with our thumb, and said, "O, now,
old tapeworm, don't try to play it on us boys." And we laughed a sickly
sort of laugh. The fact of it was, we began to have doubts about the thing
working, and had a suspicion that the twinkle in Dan McDonald's eye meant
that he had been playing it on us. The landlord said he should have to
have two shillings more, and that we were blocking up the thoroughfare,
and we fumbled around and found it and paid him, and went out, probably
the most disgusted excursionist that ever was. Dan, who had watched the
whole business, slapped us on the shoulder, and said, "How did it work?"
Though not particularly hungry, we could have eaten him raw. When we go
east now, we take a lunch along, and when the other passengers are in to
supper, we sit on the woodpile at Sparta, eat our lunch and gaze at the
fountains, talk with the brakemen, and wonder if the landlord would know
us if we should go in and take a toothpick off the counter. Not any more
bummer for us, and no man must ever tell us how to save two shillings on a
meal.