I insisted that on our way back toward the office we should stop at the Commutation Chophouse and find out from a customer what the bill of fare had been on the second day. The vision of a hundred repetitions of any meal, however good, is rather ghastly.
“I don't hear the minstrel to-day,” Dove observed as we drew near the alley.
“Oh, well,” I said, “that was just to draw business for the opening.”
We turned down the passage at No. 59. Quite a crowd of patrons were waiting their turn, I saw. They were standing in the courtyard by the chop-house door, talking busily.
“You see,” I said, “it's still crowded.”
We reached the entrance. The door was closed. The sign over the doorway now had additional lettering painted on it, and read:
THE COMMUTATION CHOPHOUSE
The Other 99 Meals Will Be Served In Augusta, Maine.
“Come on, Ben,” said Dulcet. “No use trying to break through a window. There's no one there. I wonder what the fare is to Augusta?”
“You rascal!” I cried. “If you suspected this, why the devil did you encourage me to squander my $10?”