"What's that?" asked he, briskly, scenting a new experience on my plate.
"Moose," said I, sweetly.
"Moose—moose!" cried he, excitedly, seizing his bill of fare. "I'll have some. Where is it? I don't see it!"
"Hush-h-h," said I, sternly. "It is not on the bill of fare. It is out of season."
"Then how shall I get it?" he cried, anxiously. "I must have some."
"Tell the waiter to bring you the same that he brought me."
When the dear, gentle Japanese, "Charlie," came to serve him, he shamelessly pointed at my plate.
"I'll have some of that," said he, mysteriously.
Charlie bowed, smiled like a seraph, and withdrew, to return presently with a piece of beef tenderloin.
The gentleman from Boston fairly pounced upon it. We all watched him expectantly. His expression changed from anticipation to satisfaction, delight, rapture.