"Eggs and bacon and coffee with cream," he said. As he spoke he noticed that his table companion had apparently ordered nothing but the few slices of bread and butter which he was slowly eating. A goblet of water was all the man had to drink. Charles now understood the situation and he wanted to assist, but Boston men of his class are not as free with strangers as Western and Southern people, and he found himself unable tactfully to accomplish what he desired.
"You are not quite on to the ropes," the stranger remarked, his eyes on the dress-suitcase which Charles had put down. "It was all new to me when I came here, but it doesn't take long to get the run of things. God knows it is simple enough if you have the money to do it with."
"I suppose so," Charles responded. "I've just come in."
The waitress was bringing his breakfast. She placed it before him, handing him a paper napkin and leaving spoons and knife and fork. "Anything else?" she asked.
"Nothing now, thank you," Charles answered.
Instead of going on to the next table at which a man and a woman with drink-flushed faces were seating themselves amid the soiled dishes left by others, she leaned again over the shoulder of the young man opposite Charles.
"You must let me help," she whispered. "I know you are all right, and you will never get work if you are underfed. You see, I know because I've been there myself."
"Please, please, don't mention it," the young man said, his face drawn and flushed with chagrin. "I assure you I am all right. That's a good girl—let it drop."
She said nothing, but moved on to the new arrivals and began to place the soiled things onto a tray preparatory to taking their order.
"Do you intend to stop in the city awhile?" the young man asked Charles.