“The tips won’t be heavy,” the innkeeper was charitable enough to warn him.
“That’s all one to me.”
“Well, my fine fellow,” thought the landlord of The Orange Blossom, “you strike me as a mighty queer sort, but there don’t seem to be any harm in you; after all, what risk do I run?”
He accepted, and held out his hand to clinch the bargain. “Agreed,” he cried, “hand over your louis.”
“Here you are, sir!”
“Now, my lad,” continued the boniface, getting on very familiar terms, “go and fetch an apron and a jacket, I suppose you have a clean shirt-front; the meal’s ordered for half past twelve, but I don’t expect our customers before one o’clock; look’ee, here’s where we put the plates; about the glasses, you’d better polish ’em up a bit; as you’ve time to spare, that’ll give you something to do, my boy. By-the-by, what do they call you?”
After a moment’s hesitation, the new waiter named himself Daniel.
“Well, Daniel, get to work; work’s the cure for boredom, you know.”
No sooner was he left alone in the salon where the breakfast was to be served than this volunteer who had got himself taken on in so odd a fashion dropped into a chair and gave a long-drawn sigh!
“Ah!” he ejaculated; “here I am, but it’s an expensive treat; a louis! no doubt my poor watch, thanks to ‘my uncle’s’ generosity, raised me the money without over much difficulty—but when shall I ever get my dear ticker back?” Then: “Good Lord!” he groaned, “how this false beard does tickle; if only it don’t come ungummed while I’m waiting at table!”