This time he was gone longer, and when he returned he said anxiously:
“Would it be awsking too much, sir, to ’ave you repeat your horder, sir? I cawn’t think I ’ave it right, sir, y’know.”
“Two eggs,” said the American sadly and patiently—“one fried on one side and one on the other.”
More oppressive silence and another and fainter “Very well, sir.”
This time he was gone still longer. When he returned his collar was unbuttoned, his hair disheveled and his face scratched and bleeding. Leaning over the waiting patron he whispered beseechingly:
“Would you mind tyking boiled heggs, sir? I’ve ’ad some words with the cook.”
It Was His Only Tie
One morning, as Mark Twain returned from a neighborhood morning call, sans necktie, his wife met him at the door with the exclamation; “There, Sam, you have been over to the Stowes’s again without a necktie! It’s really disgraceful the way you neglect your dress!”
Her husband said nothing, but went up to his room.
A few minutes later his neighbor—Mrs. S.—was summoned to the door by a messenger, who presented her with a small box neatly done up. She opened it and found a black silk necktie, accompanied by the following note: