And so it was. On the corner of the pavement stood a tall, stout, and very well-nourished man with a ruddy face, wearing shabby but still presentable cutaway coat and gray trousers, and crowned by a steep and glittering stovepipe hat which twinkled like a heliograph in the dazzling winter glare. But, most amazing, when we elbowed a passage through the jocular crowd, we saw that this personable individual was wearing, instead of an overcoat, two large sandwich boards vigorously lettered as follows:
THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE
OPENS TO-DAY 59 Ann Street
Celebrate the Merry Yuletide!
One Prodigious Meal,
$1 BUY A STRIP TICKET AND SAVE MONEY
TO-DAY ONLY 100 meals for $10
This corpulent sandwich man was blithely answering the banter of those who were not awed by the radiance of his headgear and the dignity of his mien, and passing out printed cards to those nearest him.
“Do all the hundred meals have to be eaten to-day?” asked Dulcet. “If so, the task is beyond my powers.”
“Like the man in the Bible,” I said, “he probably rented his garments. But he couldn't rent that admirable abdomen that proclaims him a well-fed man. It seems to me a very sound ad. for the chophouse.”