Tipping as She is Tipped.
Detroit, 19—.
Dear Billy:—
Not having traveled overly much it is not to be supposed that you are higher than a three-spot when you switch on to this subject, but “tipping as she is tipped” is one of the up-to-date accomplishments, Billy.
I propose in this letter to throw my little piece of radium on to it and show it up to your tender eyes, for it certainly dazzles me. I heard a street preaching guy telling about the advancement of all things and he named over everything he could think of but left out the drum major of the bunch, the cap sheaf, as it were, the one great and only that heads the procession. There is an art in tipping but the art is soon learned; one of the lost arts, however, is to get along without tipping. The more I see of tipping the more I am convinced it is the correct thing, and the guy who started the anti-tipping club needs to roost high or he will get his tail feathers clipped. Just the same, I believe in the anti-tipping club. I wish that seventy-five per cent or more of the travelers would join it, then I would keep on tipping and be a true enough top-notcher.
There is only one tipping rule for the man who travels, and that is to tip and keep tipping, particularly if you desire to get what is coming to you. Some methodical dubs have adopted the rule of giving to the waiters ten per cent of the amount paid for a meal. My plan is to give something if nothing but a cussing, but to give according to what I receive—and a good cussing is all that is coming to some of them, according to my rule.
I found a waiter in Shanley’s once who had been spoiled by the ten per cent habit. I dropped in there with a piece of calico and the bill came to six dollars and fifty cents. I gave his nibs seven dollars and when he brought back the half, I said:
“Keep it, old man.”
He lifted it on the plate and cocking one eye, said:
“The bill was six fifty,” meaning that I ought to come down with fifteen cents more.
“That’s right,” said I, “sixty fifty is enough for any dub to pay for a dinner,” and I pocketed the half and walked out.
I think he fainted,—at all events, I heard something fall as I walked away. The girl asked what the trouble was and I said:
“Nothing, only the waiter was too honest to take a tip,” and then she fainted.
The size of the tip that a fellow is supposed to be separated from depends a good deal on the place; as a rule, the higher priced place you strike either in a hotel or restaurant (perhaps I should say a cafe), the smaller the portions and the larger the tips. You see in a real tony place where there is lots of gilt, pictures and Oriental rugs, the less they can afford to give you to eat and the more you have to pay for it; and the size of the tips you give should increase in proportion to the shrinkage of the portions you receive.
I started to go into a place in New York where the flunkeys were diked out with knee pants, silver shoe buckles and powdered wigs, and the silverware was sixteen-to-one on the tables, but when I saw the smiles on the faces of those flunkeys I backed up and got out. You see I was hungry and only had three thousand dollars in my pocket, and the Lord only knows what those powdered flunkeys would have held me up for; besides, the dinner check would have been something.
The first time I went to Atlantic City I wanted to get wise on the tipping game, so I asked a modest looking waiter what I was expected to give up for tips in a place like that. I did not have to wait long for an answer. It was on the heels of what I said so quickly I thought I must have said it myself, “Howmuchyougot?” It was a stiff game, but I stood it a week and then went straight through to Chicago. That was the time I came home on crutches, Billy, don’t you remember?
There is one thing I could never bring out straight and that is, how the average traveler will give a greasy nigger from a quarter to a half for giving him slight attention at the table, when they will let a nice, neat white girl wait on them in first-class shape and then walk off without so much as a “thank you.” That ain’t me, Billy, the girls get my money. For that matter I suppose you will say they always did. All right, old man, I have no kick coming.
Did I tell you I came near getting married while I was down in Washington, D. C.? You see it was this way, Billy: Burt Olmstead was there with his wife, and we were all stopping at the Baldy, and Mrs. Olmstead told me she had been watching the girl who takes care of the hats and coats at the entrance of the dining-room, and as near as she could figure it out the girl was pulling in in tips ten or fifteen dollars a day. That looked awful good to me, and the next time I went in to dinner I stopped to have a talk with her. I had waited until the rush was over so as to have plenty of time, and say, Billy, she wasn’t such a bad looker I found when I got my orbs on her at close range. The conversation was something like this, commencing with myself:
“Are you married?”
“No, sir.”
“Would you like to be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That would depend some on the con man.”
“What do you mean by the ‘con man?’”
“Ain’t you wise to that? Why, no guy gets a girl unless he cons her into it. I didn’t think you were scant in the top-knot, you don’t look the part.”
“Never mind the ‘scant’ part. Just throw your lamps on me and tell me how you think I would stack up for the place.”
“You are all right for looks, but how about the mazuma?”
“We’ll have the mazuma all right if you will train in my company.”
“That’s all right, Duke, but what about my steady?”
“Why don’t the duffer marry you?”
“He ain’t ready yet, I reckon.”
“Well, that’s where your steady and me differ. I am ready right now. You can put your shoes under my bed and commence P. D. Q. on one condition.”
“What is the condition?”
“That you will hold on to your job right here until I can get hold of as good a graft.”
Say, Billy, she grew two inches taller in half a minute, and then she struck an attitude and throwing her right hand out with the palm down, she said:
“Walk on, man; I have had offers from four Italian counts and two English lords within a week, but as they all suggested the same conditions, I am still single. But say, you are a good looker and if you should happen to want a job as chauffeur I might use you with my new touring car.”
Wouldn’t that give a fellow a smell of gasoline, though?
I made a foolish bet once while in Denver, with Dug Green. I bet him twenty plunks that I could live at the Blue Palace a week without tipping anyone about the hotel. The only place that troubled me was the dining-room. I was sure I could get away with the bell boys and porters, although I knew I would get myself very much disliked. You know how bad I hate to get beat, Billy, so you must know how hard I tried to save that twenty, but it was no use—I soon found I was fighting against big odds and that the other side had some great generals. We made the bet on Monday morning before breakfast, and I was to commence at once. As I went into the cafe that morning I picked out a waiter whom I had tipped quite liberally the week before, and said to him:
“Sam, bring me a nice little breakfast. You know what I like.”
Sam brought me a nice sirloin steak, shirred eggs, rolls and a cup of coffee, and on the steak was a couple of slices of crisp bacon. When through with my breakfast I walked out without giving Sam a tip. He showed his surprise and disappointment very plainly. According to my arrangement with Dug I was not to make any promises of future payment, and was to eat in the same dining-room during the week.
At lunch time Sam waited on me again and looked more puzzled than ever when I walked out without tipping him. At dinner I sat at another table and had another waiter, who of course knew that I had not tipped Sam, as every customer in a hotel is spotted and his measure taken by each flunkey for the benefit of the others. This waiter seemed to think that for some reason I had taken exceptions to Sam, therefore, he laid himself out to do his best to win my favor, thinking to draw an extra tip from me. It was of no use, however, as when through I walked out, leaving nothing to smooth the rough places off his hard and lumpy thoughts.
My plan then was to change tables each meal, as I thought in that way I could get through the week and save my bet, but you know the old saying, “White man proposes and a nigger trips him up”—at least Dug told me it was an old saying. Imagine my surprise the next morning as I sat down to a table far removed from Sam’s side of the dining-room to find that he was to wait on me.
“Bring me a nice little breakfast, Sam,” said I, and it was brought—that is, it was little but not nice. The steak was tough, the bacon was raw and the potatoes were cold. I stood it until Thursday morning, and then dodged into the dining-room when I saw Sam had all he could attend to. As I came in the door the head waiter sent some one to take Sam’s place, and Sam came to me with a smile on his face that boded no good for yours truly.
“Sam,” said I, “you d— rascal, you bring me a nice breakfast; you know what I like and you see that it is all right. If I have any more of your nonsense I will talk to the head waiter about you, and if that doesn’t do any good I will tie you up in a knot. I mean what I say, do you hear me?”
“I sho does,” said Sam, and he left me without another word.
I made up my mind that I was on the right track to win the twenty. Dug came in when I did, but as we had agreed not to sit together, he had taken a seat at another table. I was interested in flirting with a girl at another table, and when I looked around Dug was through with his breakfast and was evidently waiting to see how I was coming out. After a time a strange coon came in with my breakfast, and a worse outfit I never have struck up against. The steak was stone cold and so was the coffee.
“Boy,” said I, “where in h— has this meat been since it came off the fire?”
“Sam done took it outen de ice chest, sar.”
“Out of the ice chest?” questioned I.
“Yes, sar, he done tole me you war a hot-headed sort o’ pussen, sar, and dat you had to hab yo’ breakfast cooled off, sar.”
I looked at the nigger. He was about six feet tall and a good, husky fellow withal, and I then noticed that the coat he had on was several sizes too small for him. I caught on to the scheme. Sam had changed places with a pot wrestler and sent him in to save himself trouble. I looked over towards Dug, and he had on a broad grin. Then I caught a glimpse of the head waiter. He had a queer look on his face that I did not understand. The whole thing was too much for me. I gathered up the dishes that held the steak, coffee, eggs, etc., and the next thing that happened they landed square on that nigger’s head and shoulders. The weight of the truck took the big brute to the floor, and there was a mixture of eggs, steak and nigger that must have taken some time to scrape apart. The nigger picked himself up and fairly flew to the kitchen, and there was a commotion in the dining-room better imagined than described. I was on my feet mad enough to fight a Spanish bull. While I stood there glowering at Dug and the rest of the push, I spied Sam keeping just out of my reach. I knew I was beaten, and, digging a dollar out of my pocket, I motioned him to me and said, as I handed him the dollar:
“Here, you black rascal, bring me my breakfast.”
In three minutes more Sam was back with a breakfast to my liking. I afterwards found that my breakfast had been cooked for me each morning but I had to give in to get it.
There is a moral in this: Tip and keep tipping; that is the only way you can get what is coming to you. I not only lost the bet, but I queered myself with the girl I had been flirting with for a week.
Yours,
Jack.
“HERE, JIM, RUN ALONG, AND GET THIS LADY AN ICE.”
To Tip or Not to Tip.
Jack
Henderson.