"Gee, did you want the orange first?" Her surprise sounded quite genuine. "I thought you ordered it last."
"Never mind the orange now"—after all, I did know when I was thoroughly beaten—"but I want black coffee, and I did say 'bacon,' not 'ham.' Also some toast. You may leave the ham, now it's here."
"Gee, you're an awfully fussy eater," was her comment. "You didn't order black coffee, did you?"
"No," I had to admit.
"Well, I'm only a waitress, not a mind reader," and with this unanswerable retort she scooped up my cup of coffee with a skilfully perilous gesture, and resumed her quest. Knowlton looked across at me and grinned.
"Having trouble with your breakfast? You can't expect breakfast at Schaefer's to be like dear old London," he went on, while something approaching a serious outburst was struggling in me. "When in Rome, do as the Romans do—that's the best plan."
"That's all very well," I said with extreme self-control, "but I am not going to eat prunes if the whole Holy Roman Empire ate them. I don't see why she can't bring me the breakfast I want when everything on God's earth is on that bill of fare."
"You'll shake down all right," he said in what was meant to be a soothing way. "Kicking about the grub won't do you any good. They don't know any better in a place like this. What's the use of getting in wrong with the waitress?"
It was hopeless to explain, so I snorted instead. Knowlton took a slice of bread and polished the inside of his now empty bowl until it glistened.
"Looks as though Fido had finished that off," he remarked, as he rolled and lit a cigarette; "I'll knock some ashes into it so they'll have to wash it."