“Dot you vill for repates no longer ask, yet, don’d it? Veil, der price ten dollars iss. Dere iss no repate. Oh, py golly, Mister Thornley, dot vas an oxpensive joke—yess? Dot vas your joke, und I shusht thought me dot I hope you will pay dot yourself.”
Thornley paid. With no good grace, but because, as MacDonald had said they would, the men made him. Disgruntled and angry, he led the file into the restaurant, placing ten dollars and twenty-five cents in Dutchy’s hand before he crossed the threshold.
Behind him followed MacDonald and the grinning line of men, each contributing their quarters—in advance—for the first square meal they had had that day.
“Eat vat you like,” said Dutchy magnanimously.
Thornley glared. “Eat vat you like! Eat vat you like!” he mimicked savagely. “I like your colossal generosity at my expense!”
For a long time there was no other noise save the rattle of dishes and the busy clatter of knives, forks, and spoons. Then Thornley beckoned to Dutchy.
“Veil, vat iss it?” inquired the proprietor from behind the counter.
“Who put you on to this?” demanded Thornley. “I’ve had to stand for it, and I’d like to know. I would that!”
MacDonald, sitting beside Thornley, noticed, with some misgivings, a peculiar expression sweep over Dutchy’s face, but to his relief the proprietor’s only reply was a grunt, as he answered a call for more coffee.
“By the hokey, I’ll bet it was that red-haired Taggart!” exclaimed Thornley suddenly, turning to the dispatcher.