"Yes, sir," respectfully replied the Evening Journal man—a tall, dark chap with gold-rimmed spectacles and a friendly smile. "What's the name of the restaurant?"
"Caspar Weinpusslacher's Colossal Restaurant," said H. Rutgers.
"Spell it!" chorused the reporters; and H. Rutgers did, slowly and patiently. At once the Evening Journalist rushed on to telephone the caption of a story to his paper. That would enable the office to get out an extra; after which would come another edition with the story itself. He was the best head-line reporter in all New York.
Long before the National Street Advertising Men's Association reached the Colossal Restaurant, Caspar Weinpusslacher converted himself into a Teutonic hurricane and changed thirty short tables into three, long ones. On his lips was a smile, and in his heart a hope that glowed like an incandescent twenty-dollar gold piece, for Max Onthemaker had rushed in breathlessly and gasped:
"He is a smart feller, all right. What?" And he gave an Evening Journal to Caspar Weinpusslacher, wherein he read this: