“Unquestionably,” said my friend, gravely, “he is the man who put the ad in adipose.”
The sandwich man, unabashed by these remarks, handed me one of his cards, which Dulcet and I read together:
K. Jefferson Gastric, the best-fed man south of 42nd Street, takes this importunity of urging you to become a steakholder in the Commutation Chophouse. Why pay for overhead expense? In the Commutation Chophouse all unnecessaries are discarded and you pay only for food, not for finger-bowls and a lovely female cashier. No tips. To-day Only, the Opening Day, to celebrate the jovial Yule, the management will sell Strip Tickets entitling you to 100 Glorious Meals, for $10.
At this point a policeman politely urged Mr. Gastric to move on, and he passed genially down Church Street, his resplendent hat glowing above a trail of followers.
“Come on,” I said; “it's time to eat, anyway. Let's go over to Ann Street and have a look at this philanthropic venture.”
“Well,” said Dulcet, “since it's your turn to buy, far be it from me to protest.”
The narrow channel of Ann Street is always crowded at the lunch hour, but on that occasion it was doubly congested with patrons of the amusing toyshops. We pushed patiently along, and passing Nassau Street moved into a darker and shabbier region. A sound of music rose upon the air. To our surprise, at the entrance to an unsuspected alley stood a fiddler playing a merry jig. Beside him was another sandwich man, also stout and well-favoured and in Fifth-Avenue attire, carrying boards which read:
ENTRANCE TO THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE
Eat Drink and Be Merry For To-morrow We Die
To-day Only, for the Jocund Yule,