If he is a drummer, she thought, his line would be whisky; then, almost as suddenly, it occurred to her that perhaps he may prove to be Ned Beaton, and she drew in her breath sharply, determined to break the ice.
The waitress spread out the various dishes before her, and she glanced at them hopelessly. As she lifted her gaze she met that of her vis-à-vis fairly, and managed to smile.
"Some chuck," he said in an attempt at good-fellowship, "but not to remind you of the Waldorf-Astoria."
"I should say not," she answered, testing one of her dishes cautiously.
"But why associate me with New York?"
"You can't hide those things in a joint like this. Besides, that's the way you registered."
"Oh, so you've looked me up."
"Well, naturally," he explained, as though with a dim idea that an explanation was required, "I took a squint at the register; then I became more interested, for I'm from little old New York myself."
"You are? Selling goods on the road away out here?"
"Not me; that ain't my line at all. I've got a considerable mining deal on up the cañon. I'll earn every dollar I'll make, though, eating this grub. Believe me, I'd like to be back by the Hudson right now."
"You've been here some time, then?"