“Ten cents.”
Ten cents was the standard price in this economical restaurant for a plate of meat of whatever kind. Perhaps, considering the quality and amount given, it could not be regarded as very cheap; still the sum was small, and came within Tom’s means.
A plate of beef was brought and placed before Tom. Her eyes dilated with pleasure as they rested on the delicious morsel. There was a potato besides; and a triangular slice of bread, with an infinitesimal dab of butter,—all for ten cents. But Tom’s ambition soared higher.
“Bring me a cup o’ coffee,” she said to the waiter.
It was brought,—a very dark, muddy, suspicious-looking beverage,—a base libel upon the fragrant berry whose name it took; but such a thought did not disturb Tom. She never doubted that it was what it purported to be. She stirred it vigorously with the spoon, and sipped it as if it had been nectar.
“Aint it prime just?” she exclaimed, smacking her lips.
Then ensued a vigorous onslaught upon the roast beef. It was the first meat Tom had tasted for weeks, with the exception of occasional cold sausage; and she was in the seventh heaven of delight as she hurriedly ate it. When she had finished, the plate was literally and entirely empty. Tom did not believe in leaving anything behind. She was almost tempted to “lick the platter clean,” but observed that none of the other guests did so, and refrained.
“Bring me a piece of apple pie,” said Tom, determined for once to have what she denominated a “good square meal.” The price of the pie being five cents, this would just exhaust her funds. Payment was demanded when the pie was brought, the prudent waiter having some fears that his customer was eating beyond her means.
Tom paid the money, and, vigorously attacking the pie, had almost finished it, when, chancing to lift her eyes to the window, she saw a sight that made her blood curdle.
Looking through the pane with a stony glare that meant mischief was her granny, whom she had supposed safe at home.