Soon after the completion of the Roberts Opera House, in Hartford, Conn., the Putnam Phalanx held a grand ball within its walls. The music was exquisite; the prompters the best in the state; the ladies were the most beautiful and dressy in the land; and all went splendidly, till the supper was discussed. There had been a misunderstanding about the number for whom supper was to be prepared, and it was found out, when too late, that there were a hundred more guests than plates. The supper was spread in the basement. When the writer went down with friends, the tables, which had already been twice occupied, presented a disgusting scene—all heaped up with dirty dishes, debris of “fowl, fish, and dessert,” and great complaint was made by the hungry dancers, while some unpleasant epithets, and uncomplimentary remarks were hurled at the heads of the innocent caterers.
With our party were Dr. C., a great joker, and Dr. D., his match.
“If you don’t like this fare you can go through into the restaurant,” said one of the waiters. “It is all the same,” he added.
We required no second invitation. We did ample justice to the fare provided, and retired, leaving Dr. C. to bring up the rear. In a half minute he came running after us, saying,—
“The fellow told me I must pay for the supper in there, extra!”
“Well, what did you tell him?”
“Why, I told him to go to h——.”
“Well, you did right; let him go; that is just the place for him.”
On another occasion, the dinner not being forthcoming at a hotel where we dined, the doctor “fell to,” and soon demolished the best part of a blanc-mange pudding before him.
“That, sir, is dessert,” politely interrupted the waiter, in dismay at seeing his dessert so rapidly disappearing.