He hurried away, and finally brought up the head waiter.
"What part of the fowl would you like, sir? This man did not understand your order."
Jimmie leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the waiters without speaking.
"How many parts are there to a chicken?" said Jimmie. "As your man does not seem to speak English, you name them over, and when you come to the one I want, I'll scream."
Both waiters shifted their weight to the other foot and looked embarrassed.
"I want the knee of the chicken," said Jimmie. "From the knee-cap to the thigh. That part which supports the fowl when it walks. Not the breast nor the neck nor the back nor yet the ankle, but the upper, the superior part of the leg. Do you understand?"
"The upper part of the leg? I beg pardon, sir, but the waiter understood that you wanted a cut from the second joint on that table, sir."
Jimmie simply looked at him.
"The English speak a dialect somewhat resembling the American language,
Jimmie," I said, soothingly.
A knock at the door, and Bee appeared.