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The Doc does his best to soothe him down and fin'lly persuades him to tackle his mutton broth without the Martini. It's a good enough feed; but kind of plain, about what you'd get in one of these Eighth-ave. joints, four courses for thirty-five cents. Mr. Ellins gets left again when he calls for a demitasse after the tapioca pudding. Nothing doing in the coffee line. "Huh!" he grunts.
My envious sympathy, Torchy, and may the gods be kind!" Which is only the brand of hot air Mr. Robert blows off whenever he has a good lunch under his vest and nothin' heavy on his mind. It don't mean anything at all. "Troy!" says I. "Can it! This ain't for no up-State laundry hand. She comes from Eighth-ave."
I was movin' off when I notices him still standin' sort of hesitatin'. "Well?" I adds. "Can I help?" "You don't happen to know," says he, "of a good eatin' house where it don't cost too all-fired much to git a square meal, do you?" "Why," says I, "I expect over on Eighth-ave., you could " And then I gets this rash notion of squarin' the account by blowin' him to a real feed.
"Yes," says Aunty; "but I think I will go also, to be sure you order the right things." Think of carryin' round a disposition like that! She trails right along with us too, and just to make the trip int'restin' for her I strikes for Eighth-ave. through one of them messy cross streets where last week's snow piles and garbage cans was mixed careless along the curb.
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