He swung round, kind of lazy-like, and looked at me. Then I noticed how big he was. Seemed to me he was all of seven foot high and broad according. And rigged up—my soul! He had on a wide, felt hat, with a whirligig top onto it, and a light checked suit, and gloves, and slung more style than a barber on Sunday. If I'D wore them kind of duds they'd have had me down to Danvers, clanking chains and picking straws, but on this young chap they looked fine.
“Good evening,” says the seven-footer, looking down and speaking to me cheerful. “Is this the Old Ladies' Home—the Old Home House, I should say?”
“Yes, sir,” says I, looking up reverent at that hat.
“Right,” he says. “Will you be good enough to tell me where I can find the proprietor?”
“Well,” says I, “I'm him; that is, I'm one of him. But I'm afraid we can't accommodate you, mister, not now. We ain't got a room nowheres that ain't full.”
He knocked the ashes off his cigarette. “I'm not looking for a room,” says he, “except as a side issue. I'm looking for a job.”
“A job!” I sings out. “A JOB?”
“Yes. I understand you employ college men as waiters. I'm from Harvard, and—”
“A waiter?” I says, so astonished that I could hardly swaller. “Be you a waiter?”
“I don't know. I've been told so. Our coach used to say I was the best waiter on the team. At any rate I'll try the experiment.”