“I could,” Jimmy replied. “But I’m going to have some clams first. Which soup is the fillingest?”
A boy of about their own age, which is to say seventeen or eighteen, began pouring water into the glasses, which led Jimmy to observe for the first time that the waiters were all masculine and youthful, though most of them were older than their own attendant. Just then Harley’s foot collided painfully with Jimmy’s ankle and the latter emitted a loud howl of anguish that attracted the disapproving curiosity of the neighboring diners.
“Shut up, you idiot!” whispered Stanley severely.
“That’s all right,” returned Jimmy aggrievedly, rubbing the injured ankle under the table, “but he pretty near killed me with that big hoof of his! Gee, Mac, what’s the prodigious conception?”
“Sorry,” muttered Harley, his eyes on the menu. “Do we all want clams? All right, clams for three, then.” This latter to the waiter at his elbow.
“Will you order your soup and fish now, please?” asked the waiter. “It saves time.”
“Sure. Let’s see. I’ll have the cream of celery. What’s yours, Stan?”
“Same, I guess.”
“Oxen tails for me,” said Jimmy. “And a large portion of that bluing fish.”
The waiter took himself off and Harley leaned toward Jimmy with a scowl. “Didn’t you see who that was, you dumb-bell?”