“Any friend of mine would be welcome, Mr. Bruce. But here comes the waiter. What will you have?”
“Give your order first, Mr. Snodgrass.”
“A plate of corned beef hash and a cup of coffee,” said Mr. Snodgrass.
“You may bring me some fried eggs and a cup of tea,” added Ben.
The hash was brought and with it a few slices of bread and a square of pale butter. The hash did not look very inviting, but the novelist partook of it with evident relish.
“I think I will take a piece of pie,” he said, as the last mouthful of hash disappeared, “Ralph Waldo Emerson ate pie at every meal. Of course you have heard of Emerson.”
“Yes; did he write for the Bugle?” asked Ben with a smile.
“No; our readers prefer romance. It may seem presumptuous in me to say so, but I really believe they enjoy my productions better than the essays of Emerson.”
“I have no doubt of it. I hope, Mr. Snodgrass, you will give me a chance to read some of your stories.”
“I will with pleasure. I have several of them in weekly numbers of the Bugle.”