"I didn't stop for dinner," says he.
"In that case—er—what's the name?" says I.
"Mister Smith," says he.
"Easy name to remember," says I.
"Ye-e-es. I'd rather you called me Gerald, though," says he.
"Good," says I. "Well, Gerald, seein' as you've made a long jump since breakfast, what do you say to grubbin' up a little with me, eh?"
That strikes him favourable, and as Mother Whaley is just bringin' in the platter, we goes inside and sits down, Togo and all. He sure didn't fall to like a half starved kid; but maybe that was because he was so busy lookin' at Mrs. Whaley. She ain't much on the French maid type, that's a fact. Her uniform is a checked apron over a faded red wrapper, and she has a way of puggin' her hair up in a little knob that makes her face look like one of the kind they cut out of a cocoanut.
Gerald eyes her for a while; then he leans over to me and whispers, "Is this the butler's night off?"
"Yes," says I. "He has seven a week. This is one of 'em."
After he's thought that over he grins. "I see," says he. "You means you haven't a butler? Why, I thought everyone did."