Though Ben had fasted all day, he declined partaking of it, and sat toying with his iron spoon, and noticing the other guests. They had not his squeamishness. The greater portion of the three hundred were devoting a majesty of jaw bone to the work before them, highly edifying.
"The soup is extra to-night," remarked a veteran, as he fished up a mass that might have been fish, flesh or fowl.
"Excellent!" responded a neighbor; "the best I've tasted since leaving the rotisseries in the Rue de Gumbo!"
"I'll wait fur the toorkey wid the ister stuffin'," remarked another who had finished his pan.
"Yez'll have to wait, thin, for it's Friday, an' there's no toorkey. It'll be trout an' salmon, the day," returned a gentleman whose ragged sleeve had evidently enjoyed the soup in company with its owner.
"What part of the fowl do you prefer, sir?" asked a polite tramp, tendering Ben a section of a mackerel's back.
"Let the gentleman alone. The venison he had for dinner did not agree with him," said a thin man, eyeing Ben's untasted soup longingly. Ben saw the soup and presented him the panful, which made the thin man an object of envy to all in that vicinity.
"Didn't I see you in Poverty Barn, in Cleveland?" asked a fat, asthmatic tramp of Ben.
Our friend replied in the negative, when the asthmatic went into a glowing description of the magnificence of "Poverty Barn, in Cleveland."
"It's behind the police station, Sor. Bunks three tier high, Sor. A plank set on edge for a pillow in each of them, Sor. A big stove that you can dry your clothes at, Sor. There's no knob on the inside of the door, Sor. So when you get in you can't get out, Sor. It's a good hangup, but no chuck, Sor. When you're in Cleveland don't fail to give it a call, Sor. It's deserving of patronage, Sor."