“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.