As soon as they were seated, Tucker reached for the menu.
“Well, let’s get this struggle over with,” he remarked, as he ran his eye down it. “I eat from a sense of duty. Hotels must be supported. Mere grub is repugnant to me, but I have to go through the motions.”
Buckhart looked at Dick and lowered one eyelid.
“Catch on to his order, pard,” he murmured.
At that moment the waiter approached with pad and pencil.
“What are you going to have, Tommy?” Dick asked. “Don’t torture yourself too severely.”
The little fellow’s brows were knitted in deep thought.
“H’m! A little consommé to start with, I think. That ought to taste pretty good on a warm day like this. Then—let me see. A filet mignon sounds right. Potatoes come with it, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir,” nodded the waiter.
“Lima beans and green corn will do for the other vegetables. Follow that with a lettuce salad; and, for dessert, sliced peaches with a portion of vanilla ice cream. That’s about all, except that I want a pot of coffee with cream brought with the filet.”