"I should say so. Why, that's Oll Hitchcock's. You can't get a better cup of coffee or sandwich anywhere in New York. I often get lunch there myself, when I don't have time to go home."
"Thank you for telling me. I'll go over."
Ben Baker, for that is the name of our young hero, walked across the street, and descended the steps into the well-known restaurant or lunch-room of Oliver Hitchcock. Open by night as well as by day, there is hardly an hour of the twenty-four in which it is not fairly well patronized, while at times it is thronged. It is a favorite resort for men of all classes—printers, journalists, newsmen—who drop in in the early morning on their way to or from the offices of the great morning papers for their regular supplies—politicians and business men of all kinds.
More than once in Oliver Hitchcock's old saloon, farther up the same street, Horace Greeley, the elder Bennett, and Raymond, of the Times, could be found at the plain tables, unprovided with cloths, but bearing appetizing dishes.
When Ben entered the restaurant at half-past eleven he was surprised to find most of the tables occupied.
Coming from the country, where ten o'clock found nearly every one in bed, he was much surprised to find so many persons up and engaged in supping.
"People in New York seem to sit up all night," he thought.
He took a vacant seat, and the waiter soon coming up to him, stood in silent expectation of an order.
"Give me a cup of coffee and a sandwich," said Ben.
"What kind?"