“No, I guess it won’t spoil your dinner, Tom; I’ll bet you will eat like a hungry tramp before we get through.”
“Maybe I will, Bob Hunter, but I’d like to know what I’m eatin’ all the same,” replied Tom, somewhat indignant. He did not like to be compared to a hungry tramp.
“That’s all right, Tom Flannery; now don’t you get off your base so sudden like. You will think you never struck a lay out like this before you get half way down the bill,” said Bob, trying to restore good feeling.
“Well, I hope I will, that’s what I say. A feller ought to get something good when he has to wade through such blamed old names as these, that don’t mean nothin’.”
“But they do mean somethin’, jest as much as what our words mean to us.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Bob Hunter, that anybody uses these words?”
“Of course they do, Tom. They are French words, and French folks know what they mean.”
Tom thought for a moment; then he said:
“I was way off, Bob. I thought it was some words jest made up for this bill, ’cause you see I don’t know nothin’ about French.”
The waiter now reappeared, bringing with him two long rolls of French bread, a supply of butter, and three glasses of ice water.