"You ain't got no cocktail stuff," he says.
"I certainly have," says I. "I ordered it early this afternoon."
"Where at?" he ast me.
"Over in the bar," I says.
"Oh, the regular bar!" he says. "That don't count. You got to have stuff at the service bar to get it served in here."
"I ain't as thirsty as I thought I was," says I.
"Me, neither," says the Missus.
So we went ahead and ordered our meal, and w'ile we was waitin' for it a young couple come and took the other two chairs at our table. They didn't have to announce through a megaphone that they was honeymooners. It was wrote all over 'em. They was reachin' under the table for each other's hand every other minute, and when they wasn't doin' that they was smilin' at each other or gigglin' at nothin'. You couldn't feel that good and be payin' seventeen dollars a day for room and board unless you was just married or somethin'.
I thought at first their company'd be fun, but after a few meals it got like the southern cookin' and begun to undermine the health.
The conversation between they and us was what you could call limited. It took place the next day at lunch. The young husband thought he was about to take a bite o' the entry, which happened to be roast mutton with sirup; but he couldn't help from lookin' at her at the same time and his empty fork started for his face prongs up.