He found himself out in the street peering into bakeshop windows and critically appraising the more or less appetizing pastry displayed therein. No use to buy one of those pies and attempt to work it off on Miss Slosson, he thought. They were all too obviously the apple pies of commerce, pale, anaemic affairs bearing not even a remote resemblance to the succulent product of the home kitchen. His artist’s soul revolted at the thought of utilizing one of them to further his nefarious designs.
He exhausted the possibilities of the bakeries on three of the principal avenues in the center of the city and worked himself into a fine frenzy of despair from which he sought relief in a motion picture theatre. What was programmed as a Nonpareil Comedy was unfolding itself on the screen when he entered and just as he slid into a seat in the back row he beheld a large object hurtling through the air propelled by the principal comedian. It struck the comedy villain of the piece full in the face with a disastrously liquid and messy result.
“My God, apple pie,” murmured Jimmy to himself as he clambered out into the aisle, barking the shins and stirring up the latent profanity of an irascible looking man who had slipped into a seat alongside him.
He met Tom Wilson again that evening in the hotel lobby and they went into dinner together.
“Don’t ask me about that story, Tom,” he pleaded as they sat down. “I want to forget it for a little while.”
And he did. The dinner was excellent, the waiter was alert and extremely polite and his companion unbosomed himself of a flow of anecdotes that kept him in a constant state of merriment.
“Mighty good dinner, Tom,” he remarked heartily near the end of the meal, “and mighty fine service.”
The waiter cleared away the dishes and presented the menu to Jimmy.
“If I may be permitted, sir,” he said deferentially, “I might suggest that the apple pie is excellent tonight.”
Jimmy pushed his chair back from the table with such violence that he almost upset it.