"Great Scott!" says he. "Cap'n, this is the best feed I've had since I first struck the Cape, and that was ten years ago. What's happened to this hotel? Is it under new management?"
I didn't feel like grinnin', but I couldn't help it.
"Yes," says I, "it is—for the time bein'."
The final layer we loaded that crowd up with was blueberry dumplin' and they washed it down with coffee. Then the fat man—his name was Johnson—hauled out cigars and the males lit and started puffin'. I went out to the kitchen to see how things was goin' there.
Mary Blaisdell, with a big apron tied over her Sunday gown, was washin' dishes. Her sleeves was rolled up, her hair was rumpled, and she looked pretty enough to eat—at least, I shouldn't have minded tryin'.
"How was it?" she asked. "Are they satisfied?"
"If they ain't they ought to be," says I. "And to-morrer the dyspepsy doctors'll do business enough to give us a commission. But where's our old college chum, the chef, and the waiters and all?"
"They're in the barn," says she. "They tried to come in here and make trouble, but Mr. Perkins wouldn't let 'em. He drove 'em back to the barn again. But they're dreadfully cross."
"I shouldn't wonder," I says. "Well, goodness knows what'll come of this, Mary, but—"
Bill Bangs interrupted me. He come tearin' out of the dinin'-room, white as a new tops'l, and his eyes pretty close to poppin' out of his head.