“Jimmy, yuh lop-eared son-of-uh-sea-cook, bring us uh meenoo!”
Right then they gits uh surprise. Instead of Jimmy, with his dirty apron and a half-smoked cigaret hangin’ out uh one side of his mouth, out waltzes th’ swellest lookin’ female person they ever saw, and she single-foots right up to ’em with uh smile, and then out comes another she person, but this last one ain’t noways in th’ same class as Number One.
They’re both wearin’ li’l dinky white aprons and uh head full uh hair, but here th’ similarity ceases some abrupt. Th’ first one is packin’ class by th’ ton. She’s—well, she looks uh lot like th’ lady on th’ Empire Packin’ Company’s calendar, which ol’ man Padden has hangin’ over his bunk.
Th’ other is older by twenty years and seems sort-a sprung in th’ knees. She’s got uh forearm like Jefferies and needs uh shave. Th’ first one leans over th’ table and hands uh printed bill uh fare, but Ren don’t read it a-tall. He says, “Thanks, ma’am,” and puts it in his pocket.
Th’ older one grins at Sig and says, “Nice day.”
“Uh-huh,” agrees Sig. “It shore is. Don’t hardly look like it might rain.”
Ren just sits there lookin’ at th’ pretty one, like uh chickadee lookin’ at uh rattler. He ain’t able to even wink.
“Soup?” asks th’ lady.
“Are we?” asks Ren, turnin’ to Sig, who is also industriously sizin’ up th’ beauty show.
“Intensely,” agrees Sig, and th’ two females beat it fer th’ kitchen.