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Recalling this speech of Dave's brought my thoughts back to the old question, 'Where was he? And then the dialogue at my elbow aroused my flagging attention, and brought it back to my rustic acquaintance and the smug personage at his side. 'Wal, now, I hadn't thought of that, but now't you mention it, 'twas a good idee; and they wouldn't change it to the eatin'-house?
"Just like I thought," said Jessup, as they mounted and swung around the corner. "That guy was planted there a-purpose to get us into the eatin'-house. What's more, I'll bet my saddle he was the same one who came snoopin' around Red Butte camp two weeks ago. Recollect, Gabby said he was small, with black hair an' eyes close together?" Buck nodded.
"Yes, and pigs and sheep and hens and ... all the things they have. Ducks and things!" "I'd love that," she said, delighted. "We'd go up to Belfast every now and then, and look at the shops and buy things!...." "An' go to the theatre an' have our tea at an eatin'-house?" "We'd go to an hotel for our tea," he said. "Oh, no, I'd be near afeard of them places.
He studied my face a moment, then he chuckled up a laugh, an' scooted over to an eatin'-house, comin' back with a lot o' stuff an' some coffee. Then we got into the boat an' begun to sail. Oh, it certainly was grand! By the time I had made it up with my stomach we were out on the Pacific Ocean, an' I felt like Christopher Columbus. Enjoy myself? Well. I guess I did!
I'd say he ain't a bad looker. That would be about right." "He is handsome, Linton!" "Well, likely he is to a woman. I've heard that there's been women which thought him a heap good lookin'." "Where, Linton?" she asked, quickly. "Why, in Pardo, ma'am. There was a biscuit shooter in a eatin'-house there that was sure wild about Harlan she followed him around a heap."
You don't want much of anything tor breakfast or tea; you can boil you an egg on the stove here, and you can make your own tea or coffee; and if I was you, I'd go out for my dinners to an eatin'-house. I heard some my lodgers tellin' how they done.
"I'd foller dem fellers right fru' dis yer eatin'-house." Frank Harley seemed to be getting some information. In the country he had lived in nearly all his life, "colored people" were as good as anybody if they were of the right sort; and a man's skin had little to do with the degree of respect paid him, although even there it was an excellent thing to be "white."
He had a plan of his own for the following evening and another meal at Mrs. Wyeth's was not a part of it. "Er er excuse me, ma'am," he cut in hastily, "but I had a a kind of notion that Mary-'Gusta and me might get our supper at a a eatin'-house or somewhere tomorrow night and then maybe we'd take in I mean go to a show a theater, I should say.
Why, he's inside there." Bud looked surprised and somewhat incredulous. "What the devil's he doin' in that greaser eatin'-house?" The stranger squinted one eye as the cigarette smoke curled up into his face. "Oh, he ain't patronizin' the joint," he explained with a touch of dry amusement. "He's after old José Maria for sellin' licker, I reckon.
"You would be entitled to a clerk. The man I have would like to stay. And another thing. I have just had an application from young Adams, of Stacey. He wrote from St. Johns. He wants to get into the Service. While we are at it, what do you know about him?" "Nothin'. But his mother runs a right comf'table eatin'-house over to Stacey. She's a right fine woman.
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