“Where did that bird come from?” demanded the amazed Mr. Vivian as he viewed the skill of the gratuitous laborer.
“You know,” taunted an irate waiter; but Mr. Vivian’s honest countenance gave him the lie in his teeth, noiselessly.
Curiosity held the little group. They examined Mr. Jones’s work with professional interest, making surmises as to his identity. “Looks like a jockey,” said one. “More like a barber,” urged another. “I’ll bet ten cents he is an ex-bartender,” wagered a sportive character.
Even as they watched, Mr. Jones approached Virginia, offering her food with profound bows and courtly manners.
“He is a waiter,” declared the strikers with one accord, and again they rested suspicious eyes upon Mr. Vivian.
“That dub ain’t working for me,” affirmed the caterer.
Much elated at successfully allaying famine, Mr. Jones turned anew towards the kitchen. Had not Virginia smiled upon him? He swung his tray and whistled a merry tune. In the pleasure of serving others, the aches and pains of the athlete were forgotten. At the kitchen door he was surrounded by resolute men.
“Make no resistance,” a determined voice warned.
The white coated mob moved away escorting Mr. Jones as towards summary execution.
Scenting happenings of interest, Ike followed.