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Now, I will get you your dinner, sair." Hamilton felt distinctly uncomfortable in being left alone, not feeling at all sure that the man who had been there before would not suddenly dash in upon him unawares and stab him in the back with a stiletto to make sure of his not talking, nor that the restaurant-keeper might not put some poison in his coffee.
He said he could not possibly receive his friends in a house where his name was to be seen on the signboard of such a low establishment. "It was his despair to be the son of a restaurant-keeper, and to be called Chevassat. "But greater grief was to come to him after two years' idle and expensive life such as has been described.
Whereupon the restaurant-keeper lifted his arms indignantly and shrieked: "Twenty-five sen! Twenty-five sen! You pay now!" Quite a crowd had collected, and it was growing embarrassing for Alf Davis. It was so ridiculous and petty, Alf thought. Such a disturbance about nothing! And, decidedly, he must be doing something.
"Evening, Gurn," he said; "it's six o'clock, and the restaurant-keeper opposite wants to know if he is to send your dinner in to you." "No," Gurn growled. "I'll have the prison ordinary." "Oh ho!" said the warder; "funds low, eh?
"I'll take five hundred dollars, cash." "Have you a reliable cook?" "Yes. He knows his business." "Will he stay?" "For the present. If you want a profitable business, you will do well to buy." "I don't want it for myself. I want it for this young man." "For this boy?" asked the restaurant-keeper, surprised. Joe looked equally surprised. "Do you think you can keep a hotel, Joe?" asked Morgan.
"I wouldn't be so ready to claim it, if I were you," he said, knowing that the other might not understand the words but could tell the tone. "What are you going to do?" queried the restaurant-keeper in a hoarse whisper. "They will kill-a me!" Hamilton thought hard for a moment or two.
What they are thinking about, what the Anti-Saloon League talks about, what the Prohibition enforcement officers expend their energy upon, is the sale of alcoholic drinks in public places and by bootleggers. But where the bootlegger and the restaurant-keeper counts his thousands, home brew counts its tens of thousands.
A grating, almost stopped up with some compound similar to the deposit with which a restaurant-keeper gives an air of cellar-bound antiquity to a merely middle-aged bottle, only served to heighten the general resemblance to a prison door; a resemblance further heightened by the trefoil-shaped iron-work, the formidable hinges, the clumsy nail-heads.
The basement is given over to a restaurant-keeper whose identity is fixed by the testimony of another signboard, bearing the two words, "Butter-cake Bob's." Mr. Ricketty's little black eyes wander for an instant up and down the front of the building, and then he trips lightly down the basement steps into the restaurant.
"I can try," said Joe promptly. "Come in, gentlemen," said the restaurant-keeper. "We can talk best inside." The room was small, holding but six tables. In the rear was the kitchen. "Let me see your scale of prices," said Morgan. It was shown him. "I could breakfast cheaper at Delmonico's," he said.
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