The next morning Hendrik went to his tailor. As he walked into the shop
he had the air of a man in whom two new suits a day would not be
extravagance. The tailor, unconscious of cause and effect, called him
"Mister," against the habit of years. Hendrik nodded coldly and said:
"As secretary and treasurer of the National Street Advertising Men's
Association, I've got to have a new frock-coat. Measure me for one."
Hendrik had the air of a man who sees an unpleasant duty ahead, but does
not mean to shirk it. This attitude always commands respect from
tailors, clergymen, and users of false weights and measures.
"Left the bank?" asked the tailor, uncertainly.
"I should say I had," answered Hendrik, emphatically.
"What is the new job, anyhow?" asked the tailor, professionally. His
customers usually told him their business, their history, and their
hopes. By listening he had been able to invest in real estate.
"As I was about to say when you _interrupted_ me"--Hendrik spoke
rebukingly.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Rutgers," said the tailor, and blushed. He knew
now he should have said "position" instead of "job." The civilization of
to-day--including sanitary plumbing--is possible because price-tags were
invented. This is not an epigram.
"--the clothes must be finished by Thursday. If you can't do it, I'll go
somewhere else."
"Oh, we can do it, all right, Mr. Rutgers."
"Good morning," and Hendrik strode haughtily from the shop.
To the tailor Hendrik had always been a clerk at a bank. But now it was
plain to see that Mr. Rutgers thought well of himself, as a man with
money always does in all Christian countries. Hendrik's credit at once
jumped into the A1 class. Some people and all tailors judge men by their
backs.
Being sure of the guests, Hendrik Rutgers went forth in search of their
dinner. To feed fivescore starving fellow-men was a noble deed; to feed
them at the expense of some one else was even higher. So, dressed in his
frock-coat, wearing his high hat as though it was a crown, he sought
Caspar Weinpusslacher. The owner of the "Colossal Restaurant," just off
the Bowery, gave a square meal for a quarter of a dollar, twenty-five
cents; for thirty cents he gave the same meal with a paper napkin and
the privilege of repeating the potato or the pie. His kitchen
organization was perfect. His cooks and scullions had served in the
German army in similar capacities, and he ruled them like one born and
brought up in the General Staff. His waiters also were recruited from
the greatest training-school for waiters in the world. He operated on a
system approved by an efficiency expert. By giving low wages to people
who were glad to get them, paying cash for his supplies and judiciously
selecting the latter just on the eve of their spoiling, he was able to
give an astonishingly good meal for the money. His profits, however,
depended upon his selling his entire output. This did not always
happen. Some days Herr Weinpusslacher almost lost three dollars.
No system is perfect. Otherwise hotel men would wish to live for ever.
Hendrik stalked into the Colossal dining-room and snarled at one of the
waiters:
"Where's your boss?"
The waiter knew it couldn't be the Kaiser, or a millionaire. It must
therefore be a walking delegate. He deferentially pointed to a short,
fat man by the bar.
"Tell him to come here," said Rutgers, and sat down at a table. It isn't
so much in knowing whom to order about, but in acquiring the habit of
ordering everybody about, that wins.
Caspar Weinpusslacher received the message, walked toward the table and
signaled to a Herculean waiter, who unobtrusively drew near--and in the
rear--of H. Rutgers.
Hendrik pointed commandingly to a chair across the table. C.
Weinpusslacher obeyed. The Herculean waiter, to account for his
proximity, flicked non-existent crumbs on the napeless surface of the
table.
"Recklar tinner?" he queried, in his best Delmonico.
"_Geht-weg!_" snarled Mr. Rutgers. The waiter, a nostalgic look in his
big blue eyes, went away. _Ach_, to be treated like a dog! Ach, the
Fatherland! And the officers! _Ach!_
"Weinpusslacher," said Rutgers, irascibly, "who is your lawyer and
what's his address?"