They caught on.
"May God bless you, young man!" exclaimed the old lavender man.
The Indian grunted expressively.
The Dutchman twisted about in his place and shouted in the direction of the bar:
"Mek ut er bottle Billzner und er Gotha druffle, mit ein im-borted Frankfooter bei der side on."
The Kanaka woman came up, and the Dutchman repeated his order. The lavender man paused reflectively tapping his brow, then he delivered himself: "A half spring chicken," he said with profound gravity, "rather under done, and some chicory salad and a bottle of white wine—put the bottle in a little warm water for about two minutes—and some lyonnaise potatoes with onions, and—
"Donner wetter," shouted the Dutchman, "genuch!" smiting the table with his fist.
The other subsided. The Kanaka woman turned to the Indian.
"Whiskey," he grunted, "plenty whiskey, big beefsteak, soh," and he measured off a yard on the table.
"Leander," said I, when he rejoined me, "that was foolishness, you've thrown away your five dollars and these fellows are going to waste it in riotous living. You see the results of indiscriminate charity."