CHAPTER V
A PLAN AND A TELEGRAM
The big, cool dining-room, with tall palms and plants, snowy tables and gleaming silver, the crowd of well-dressed people, the talk and laughter, and the obsequious, hurrying waiters, was not a new experience to the Watermelon. For one short, painful week, he had essayed to be a waiter and had finally seen the folly of his ways and given it up after he had broken more china than his wages, which were withheld, could cover. His complete indifference as to what people thought of him made him entirely at his ease, while his scattered wits were coming back with a rush and his colossal self-assurance was growing every moment he was in the society of the charming Billy.
"I was a hash-slinger once," said he, gazing at her across the table.
Her small nose wrinkled with pleasure and the single dimple flashed forth and was gone.
"That's right," said the general, who grew more fond of his guest with every passing remark. "Don't be ashamed of the past just because you have money now."
"You blacked boots, too, I believe?" questioned Bartlett, the results of that unfortunate cotton deal he had participated in still rankling. "Quite interesting."
The Watermelon had ears only for Billy. She spoke and it was as if the others had been silent.
"Was it fun?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," drawled the Watermelon sarcastically. "It was fun all right. Everybody wanted to be waited on first and everybody wanted the white meat."