"Huh!" he grunts. "I suppose I may smoke, eh?"
"On the north veranda, from seven until eight-fifteen," says the waiter.
"Well, I'll be—blistered!" says Old Hickory.
While he's burnin' a couple of black perfectos out on the smoke reservation, I roams around the Restorium. It's furnished neat and simple, with lots of varnished woodwork and a few framed railroad photos on the walls. In the parlor was four or five groups of women in rockin' chairs, talkin' low and doin' fancy-work. Most of the men were tiptoein' up and down the veranda. They was a stoop shouldered, dyspeptic lookin' lot. Down in the basement in a place labeled "Recreation Room," a couple of checker games was in progress, and four gents was shovin' weights up and down the shuffleboard. Yes, it was a perfectly good place to be quiet in. I could guess why Hickory Ellins had begun to show signs of bein' restless. By eight o'clock he comes marchin' in and up to the office desk.
"Where's the billiard room?" says he.
"There is no billiard room, brother," says the Doc, steppin' to the front. "Here we have eliminated all of those things that might disturb our beautiful peace and quiet."
"Have, eh?" grunts Hickory. "Then where can I find three others to make up a bridge game?"
"Card playing," says the Doc, putting his thumb and forefingers together, "is not allowed in the Restorium."
"Sorrowing sisters by the sea!" remarks Mr. Ellins. "No billiards! No cards! Say, what the merry Mithridates do you think I'm going to do with myself from now until twelve o'clock, eh?"
"By referring to the rules of this establishment, Mr. Ellins," says the Doc, speakin' cold and reprovin', "you will see that the general retiring hour is fixed at nine-thirty. At nine-forty-five the gas is all turned off."