The doorman of the restaurant, instructed as to the importance of these clients by their tableau at the curb, ushered Dink Gerding and Orison McCall into the presence of the maitre d'. When the doorman had been rewarded with a crackling handshake, the headwaiter led them through the crowd of groundlings as though they were accompanied by fife and drums. The table to which he bowed them, while not the most conspicuous, was without doubt the finest the management had to offer. The Reserved sign was swept aside with a gesture that indicated that there were no reservations where Mr. Dink Gerding was concerned. Mr. Gerding justified the maitre's confidence in him with another green-palmed handshake.
"Dink," Orison whispered across the table. "That was a fifty-dollar bill you gave him."
"Yes, it was," Dink admitted. "I felt that fifty was enough."
"Quite enough," Orison assured him.
The wine-steward, wearing a chain that could have held a tub to mooring, absorbed Dink's instructions with the air of a chela attending the dying words of his guru. The two waiters poised themselves reverently at his shoulders, waiting the revelation of his order. "We'll begin ..." Dink began.
"Dink, I'd like a lobster," Orison said.
"I'd not advise lobster," Dink said thoughtfully. "I'm afraid that lobster won't agree with you this evening."
"Dink, lobster is what I want," Orison insisted. "Haven't you heard of the Nineteenth Amendment?"
"Very well, feminist," Dink said. He turned to the waiter at his right. "The lady will have a lobster." He turned to the left. "As for me, a saddle of venison, and such accessory furniture as you may choose to accompany it." The waiters bowed and retreated.
"Why do you insist on being boss, even after banking-hours?" Orison asked.