“A julep,” was the reply, “and, while you are making it, a little whisky straight.”
A bottle of bourbon was set before him, and he wasted no valuable time while the bartender manipulated the more complicated drink. Experiencing the felicity of a man who has entered a higher civilization, the manager ordered a bottle of iced ale, drank it with gusto, and, seating himself, was soon partaking of a palatable dish. By this time the Virginian, joined by a friend, had ordered another julep for the near future and a little “straight” for the immediate present.
“Happy days!” said the former.
“And yours happier!” replied the newcomer.
“Why, it’s Utopia,” thought Barnes. “Every one is happy!”
But even as he thus ruminated, his glance fell upon 221 an old man at the next table whom the waiters treated with such deference the manager concluded he must be some one of no slight importance. This gentleman was thin, wrinkled and worn, with a face Voltairian in type, his hair scanty, his dress elegant, and his satirical smile like the “flash of a dagger in the sunlight.” He was inspecting his bouillon with manifest distrust, adjusting his eye-glass and thrusting his head close to the plate. The look of suspicion deepened and finally a grimace of triumph illumined his countenance, as he rapped excitedly on the table.
“Waiter, waiter, do you see that soup?” he almost shouted.
“Yes, Monsieur le Marquis,” was the humble response.
“Look at it well!” thundered the old gentleman. “Do you find nothing extraordinary about it?”
Again the bouillon was examined, to the amusement of the manager.