Table D'hote Dinner Each Day at 1.15.
Special Accommodations for Auto Parties.
That was it, you see. "The Sign of the Windmill" was the name of the new road-house.
But that wa'n't all the advertisin', by a consider'ble sight. There was signs all up and down the main roads, with hands p'intin' in the "Windmill" direction. And there was ads in the Cape papers and in the Boston papers, too. I swan, I didn't believe anybody but Jim Henry Jacobs could have engineered such advertisin'! And there was a black-lookin' critter with the ends of his mustache waxed so sharp you could have sewed canvas with 'em—he was the French chef—and three foreign waiters, and a dark-complected fleshy woman who seemed to be a sort of general assistant manager and stewardess, and—and—goodness knows what there wa'n't. There was so many kinds of hired help that I couldn't see where Frank himself come in—unless he was the spare "windmill," which, judgin' by his gift of gab, I cal'late might be the fact.
"The Sign of the Windmill" bought all its groceries and general supplies at the store, which, considerin' that we'd turned down the "chance" to be part owners, seemed sort of odd to me, 'cause Frank didn't look like a feller who'd forgive a slight like that. But I judged Jim Henry had hypnotized him, as he done other difficult customers, and so I said nothin'. The auto season opened and our weekly bills with that road-house was big ones, but they was paid every week, and I hadn't any kick there, either.
As for the business that dinin'-room done, it was surprisin', particularly Saturdays and Sundays, when there'd be twenty or more autos in the front yard and more a-comin'. The table d'hote dinner at 1.15 was so well patronized that folks had to wait their turns at table and later, on moonlight nights, the old house was all lighted up and you could hear the noise of dishes rattlin' and the laughin' and singin' till after eleven o'clock. And our bills with the "Sign of the Windmill" kept gettin' bigger and bigger.
But though the auto parties was thick and the patronage good, still there was some dissatisfaction, I found out. One big car stopped at the store on a Saturday afternoon and the boss of it talked with me while the women folks was inside buyin' postcards and such.
"Well," says I, to the owner of the car, a big, fleshy, good-natured chap he was, "well," says I, "I cal'late you've all had a good dinner. Feed you fust-class up there at the Windmill place, don't they?"
He sniffed. "Humph!" says he, "the food's all right. It ought to be, at the price. Is the proprietor of that hotel named Allie Baby?"
"Allie which?" I says, laughin'. "No, no, his name's Frank. Edwin George Eben etcetery Frank. What made you think 'twas Allie?"