“The worst meal I’ve ever had! And I’ve been in Europe, Asia and Africa. Abominable––abominable––idiot of a waiter––miserable place, miserable––and this dyspepsia––”
Thus running on, with snatches of caustic criticism, the old gentleman shambled out, the waiter holding the door open for him and bowing obsequiously.
“An amiable individual!” observed Barnes to the waiter. “Is he stopping at the hotel?”
“No, Monsieur. He has an elegant house near by. The last time he was here he complimented the cook 223 and praised the sauces. He is a little––what you call it?––whimsical!”
“Yes; slightly inclined that way. But is he here alone?”
“He is, Monsieur. He loses great sums in the gambling rooms. He keeps a box at the theater for the season. He is a prince––a great lord––?”
“Even if he calls you ‘liar’ and ‘blockhead’?”
“Oh, Monsieur,”––displaying a silver dollar with an expressive shrug of the shoulders––“this is the––what you call it?––balm.”
“And very good balm, too,” said Barnes, heartily.
Still grumbling to himself, the marquis reached the main corridor, where the scene was almost as animated as in the bar and where the principal topic of conversation seemed to be horses and races that had been or were about to be run. “I’d put Uncle Rastus’ mule against that hoss!” “That four-year-old’s quick as a runaway nigger!” “Five hundred, the gelding beats the runaway nigger!” “Any takers on Jolly Rogers?” were among the snatches of talk which lent life and zest to the various groups.