“There’s the right one!” the first customer exclaimed, as he pointed to the lowest faucet of all. “If I had kept my wits about me I’d have seen. The coffee shows in the gage glass. Besides, it’s the lowest one down, and, naturally, the coffee goes to the bottom of the urn. Try that one.”
Dorothy did, but there was no welcoming stream of the juice of the aromatic berry. She was beginning to get nervous.
“The other way,” directed the man. “It’s one of those patent faucets, I guess. Turn it the other way.”
She did so, and a brown stream, hot and fragrant, trickled out. It splashed on the board counter.
“I guess you’d better take a cup,” said the man with a smile. “We’ve found the right place this time, and there’s no use wasting the coffee. Sorry I’ve been such a bother, but I really would use a cup.” Dorothy laughed frankly. Her nervousness was passing away.
On a side shelf of the queer little restaurant she saw that the iron-china cups were piled up. She reached for one, filled it with the smoking coffee, and handed it to the man outside the flap.
“Sandwich!” he demanded. “This coffee makes a fellow want to eat, instead of quenching his appetite.”
Dorothy looked around and smelled ham. The bread was in a box, and almost fell at her feet as she searched for it.
“Plenty of mustard,” demanded the customer, and this time the strange waitress began to think she would fail to fill the order.
“I can’t seem to find the mustard,” she said lamely.