Bob smiled, and Tom burst into a characteristic laugh. It was the first time since the dinner commenced that he had seen the funny side of anything. Tom Flannery was not given to looking upon the comical side. He was too credulous for that; but when anything did strike him as funny, and he made up his mind to treat it as such, the outburst of laughter that followed—laughter that was rich and childlike—was something to do one good.
Now, there was nothing especially bright or funny about Bob’s remark that should have caused Tom to become so hilarious. In fact, it was more Herbert’s serious manner, than what Bob said, that set him off.
“’Twas an old chestnut, any way, Bob,” as Tom said the next day; “but Herbert looked so honest about it, jest as if you wasn’t talkin’ jokes, that it jest made me lay myself out and shout. I couldn’t er stopped, Bob, ef it had killed me.”
When the laughter had subsided, Bob explained his joke to Herbert, and then said:
“You have not told me what you will have. Here comes the waiter for our orders.”
“You order ’em, Bob,” said Tom. “You know what’s good.”
“That is a good suggestion, Tom, and meets with my approval,” remarked Herbert.
Bob accordingly ordered for all three, and his selection gave excellent satisfaction to his guests.
The next course was simply maccaroni, cooked in the Italian style, with tomato dressing.
“This is bang up, Bob,” said Tom Flannery, smacking his lips. “Them Eyetalians are some good after all, ain’t they?”