“Slim ought to be Chief Cook,” said the Captain. “He’s fat. Chief cooks are always fat.”
“Right you are!” cried Justice, taking off the apron and tying it around Slim as far as it would go.
“But I can’t cook!” protested Slim.
“That doesn’t make any difference,” replied Justice. “You look the part, and that’s all that’s needed. Looks are everything, these days.”
He perched the cap rakishly on top of Slim’s head and stood off a little distance to eye the effect critically.
“Nobody could tell the difference between you and the Chef of the Waldorf,” was his verdict.
Indeed, Slim, with his full moon face shining out under the cap, and the apron tied around his extensive waistline, looked just like the pictured cooks in the spaghetti advertisements.
“Isn’t he the perfect Chef, though?” continued Justice admiringly. “He must have been born with an iron spoon in his hand, instead of a gold one in his mouth.” Then, turning to Slim and bowing low before him, he chanted solemnly, “Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena, go forth, beloved of heaven! All the other cooks will drown themselves in their soup kettles in despair when they see you coming. All hail the Chief Cook!”
“But I can’t cook!” repeated Slim helplessly.
“You don’t have to,” Justice reassured him. “Chief Cooks don’t have to cook; they just direct the others. Behold, we stand ready to obey your lightest command.”