"Is there a restaurant near by?"
"Next block above. Nichols."
He never looked up--just kept on chewing the toothpick.
"Is there another hotel here?"
Even a worm will turn.
"No."
That settled it. I didn't know any inhabitant--not even a
committeeman. It was the West Norrington Arms or the street.
So I started for Nichols. By that time I could have eaten the shingles
off the church.
Nichols proved to be a one-and-a-half-story house with a glass door, a
calico curtain, and a jingle bell. Inside was a cake shop, presided
over by a thin woman in a gingham dress and black lace cap and wig. In
the rear stood a marble-top table with iron legs. This made it a
restaurant.
"Can you get me something to eat? Steak, ham and eggs--anything?" I
had fallen in my desires.
She looked me all over. "Well, I'm 'mazin' sorry, but I guess you'll
have to excuse us; we're just bakin', and this is our busy day.
S'mother time we should like to, but to-day"----
I closed the door and was in the street again. I had no time for
lengthy discussions that didn't lead to something tangible and
eatable.
"Alone in London," I said to myself. "Lost in New York. Adrift in West
Norrington. Plenty of money to buy, and nobody to sell. Everybody
going about their business with full stomachs, happy, contented,--all
with homes, and firesides, and ice chests, and things hanging to
cellar rafters, hams and such like, and I a wanderer and hungry, an
outcast, a tramp."
Then I thought some citizen might take me in. She was a rather
amiable-looking old lady, with a kind, motherly face.
"Madam!" This time I took off my hat. Ah, the common law of hunger
brings you down and humbles your pride. "Do you live here, madam?"
"Why, yes, sir," edging to the sidewalk.
"Madam, I am a stranger here, and very hungry. It's baking-day at
Nichols. Do you know where I can get anything to eat?"
"Well, no, I can't rightly say," still eyeing me suspiciously.
"Hungry, be ye? Well, that's too bad, and Nichols baking."
I corroborated all these statements, standing bare-headed, a wild idea
running through my head that her heart would soften and she would take
me home and set me down in a big chintz-covered rocking chair, near
the geraniums in the windows, and have her daughter--a nice, fresh,
rosy-cheeked girl in an apron--go out into the buttery and bring in
white cheese, and big slices of bread, and some milk, and preserves,
and a---- But the picture was never completed.
"Well," she said slowly, "if Nichols is baking, I guess ye'll hev to
wait till suppertime."
Then like a sail to a drowning man there rose before me the sign down
the hill near the station, "Five meals for a dollar."
I had the money. I had the appetite. I would eat them all at once, and
_now_.
In five minutes I was abreast of the extra-dry oyster-shells and the
pool balls. Then I pushed open the door.
Inside there was a long room, bare of everything but a wooden counter,
upon which stood a glass case filled with cigars; behind this was a
row of shelves with jars of candy, and level with the lower shelf my
eye caught a slouch hat. The hat covered the head of the proprietor.
He was sitting on a stool, sorting out chewing-gum.
"Can I get something to eat?"
The hat rose until it stood six feet in the air, surmounting a round,
good-natured face, ending in a chin whisker.
"Cert. What'll yer hev?"
Here at last was peace and comfort and food and things! I could hardly
restrain myself.
"Anything. Steak, fried potatoes--what have you got?"
"Waal, I dunno. 'Tain't time yit for supper, but we kin fix ye
somehow. Lemme see."
Then he pushed back a curtain that screened one half of the room,
disclosing three square tables with white cloths and casters, and
disappeared through a rear door.
"We got a steak," he said, dividing the curtains again, "but the
potatoes is out."
"Any celery?"
"No. Guess can git ye some 'cross to ther grocery. Won't take a
minit."
"All right. Could you"--and I lowered my voice--"could you get me a
bottle of beer?"
"Yes--if you got a doctor's prescription."
"Could _you_ write one?" I asked nervously.
"I'll try." And he laughed.
In two minutes he was back, carrying four bunches of celery and a
paper box marked "Paraffine candles."
"What preserves have you?"
"Waal, any kind."
"Raspberry jam, or apricots?" I inquired, my spirits rising.
"We ain't got no rusberry, but we got peaches."
"Anything else?"
"Waal, no; come ter look 'em over, just peaches."
So he added a can to the celery and candles, and carried the whole to
the rear.
While he was gone I leaned over the cigar-case and examined the stock.
One box labeled "Bouquet" attracted my eye; each cigar had a little
paper band around its middle. I remembered the name, and determined to
smoke one after dinner if it took my last cent.
Then a third person took a hand in the feast. This was the hired girl,
who came in with a tray. She wore an alpaca dress and a disgusted
expression. It was evident that she resented my hunger as a personal
affront--stopping everything to get supper two hours ahead of time!
She didn't say this aloud, but I knew it all the same.
Then more tray, with a covered dish the size of a soap-cup, a few
sprigs of celery out of the four bunches, and a preserve-dish, about
the size of a butter pat, containing four pieces of peach swimming in
their own juice.
In the soap-dish lay the steak. It was four inches in diameter and a
quarter of an inch thick. I opened the paraffine candles, poured out
half a glass, and demolished the celery and peaches. I didn't want to
muss up the steak. I was afraid I might bend it, and spoil it for some
one else.