“Foller me, boss!” chanted Jim in gluttonous tones: “I’s on de trail!”
He was hobbling incontinently toward the cottage, which bore a touching likeness to the annex-bungalows of terrestrial summer hotels. From its chimney climbed gently upward a column of bluish smoke, which was dissipated about by languid air currents, winged with deliciousness. Jim reached the door first.
But with sublime self-restraint he halted there, poised on his crutch till his master should enter. Jack caught him up under one arm, and the next instant they found themselves staring at a table exquisitely arrayed in white damask, porcelain dishes, sparkling flagons, and glistening silver. Gracing these utensils was royal abundance of delectable soups, juicy meats, fragrant vegetables, quivering jellies, mounded cakes and fruits, the bubbling promise of vintage wines, and on a side table an urn of incomparable coffee. Lucullus was outdone!
The two adventurers seated themselves opposite each other, and Jack proceeded to do the honors. “Clear turtle, Jim,” quoth he, ladling out the golden liquid; Jim had already begun to fill his mouth with hors-d’oeuvres. “Our appetites need no stimulus, but a sip of this amontillado will spiritualize them. Turbot, I declare! I wish Uncle Sam were with us! No, let us limit ourselves to one help—that pheasant must have full justice! Perhaps the venison outdoes the sirloin, magnificent though that looks; and the burgundy harmonizes with the noble stag. A little of this jelly! Do you smoke, Jim? While we are breathing ourselves for the pudding, we might try one of these cigarettes. Jim, you are looking better!”
“Dis is heaven, ain’t it boss?” Jim inquired.
“A part of it, I hope. A glass of this champagne will fortify us for what is yet to come. Sip it reverently—it is the apotheosis of the Widow! I incline to the pie rather than to the pudding—unless you are adequate to both. I am but a man—you, a boy! I envy you! After all, even a banquet so transcendent as this serves but as preparation for the coffee and cigars. What are you saying?”
“De yaller-haired kid, boss!” Jim whispered. “She’s pipin’ us t’rough de door!”
Jack turned and beheld the smiling face of Zarga.
CHAPTER XIV
THE MAGICIAN’S HALL
ZARGA did not wait for the banqueters to recover from their surprise, but came forward at once with the air of a hostess conscious of having pleased her guests. Her bearing seemed so artless that Jack, rendered genial by the good fare, told himself that there must be something amiss in his recollection of their last meeting.