The intelligent colored waiter found it impossible to seat seventy persons in the dining-room.
“They must dine at twice,” he said; “that’s the only chance; no help for it.”
It was night before the order for dinner was really closed and settled, many telegrams passing between Detroit and Niagara; and, as I found to my consternation, between Niagara and many adjacent towns.
“Not a turkey nor a chicken to be got for love or money,” said the landlady. “I have telegraphed and telephoned the whole neighborhood,—just going to try Buffalo, as a last resort. You see the hotels here are closed, and it is very quiet in the winter.”
“As good a dinner as can be provided,” was one of Stoker’s latest telegrams, “and it must be ready at half-past three to the minute.”
The excitement at the Prospect House was tremendous. The falls were quite discounted. They were of no moment for the time being, compared with the question of turkeys and the seating of the coming guests.
“You have beef, mutton, ham, you say?”
“Yes, and we can make some excellent soup,—a nice lot of fish has come in from Toronto, lake fish,—but turkeys, no; chickens, no; though I have telegraphed everywhere and offered any price for them. Ah, if we had only known two days ago!” said the landlady.
“Never mind, let it be a plain English dinner, horseradish sauce with the beef,—can you manage that?”
“Yes! Oh, yes!”