“A double tomato juice with a shot of Worcestershire. Bertha Cool may call for me. If she does—”
“Okay, I’ll tell her you’re here. I — here she comes now.”
I looked up as Bertha Cool came marching through the door with that determined, bulldog set to her chin, her eyes glinting.
I got up and did the honors, seating her on the other side of the table.
Bertha heaved a sigh which seemed to come from her boot tops, smiled at the waitress, and said, “I have a hell of a disposition when my stomach’s empty. Makes me feel like snapping somebody’s head off. Bring me a double order of oatmeal, ham and eggs easy over, a big pot of coffee, and see that there’s plenty of cream.”
“Yes, Mrs. Cool.”
The waitress moved silently toward the kitchen. “Congratulations,” I said to Bertha.
“On what?”
“You seem to have got your appetite back.”
She gave a snort. “That old fool,” she said.