"Too late! Too late for what?"
"For supper. It ain't over is it?"
"The grill is open from eight in the morning until midnight," explained the man, and as Connie turned away, he called after him: "Oh, Mr. Morgan——"
"Connie Morgan," corrected the boy gravely.
"Well, Connie, then—you are not to pay your checks, just sign them and the waiter will take care of them."
"That suits me," smiled Connie, and as he crossed the tiled floor he muttered: "If they hadn't wasted so much space making the office and rooms so big, they wouldn't have to eat in the cellar. In Fairbanks or Skagway they'd have made four rooms out of that one of mine." At the door of the grill a man in black met him, conducted him through a maze of small tables at which men and women were eating, and drew out a chair at a table placed against the wall. Another man in black appeared, filled a glass with water from a fat bottle, and flipped a large piece of cardboard in front of him. Connie scanned the printed list with puckered brow. Way down toward the bottom he found three words he knew, they were tea, coffee, milk. The man in black was waiting at his side with a pencil poised above a small pad of paper. "Go ahead, if you want to write," said the boy, "I won't bother you any—I'm just trying to figure out what some of these names mean."
"Waiting for your order, sir."
"Don't 'sir' me. You mean you're the waiter?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, I'm hungry, suppose you beat it out and bring me my supper."