at that white door down the street," was the advice, emphasized by a graphic forefinger. "Lay off the custard pie, 'cause he generally makes it with sour milk. Apple pie is fair, and his doughnuts is good. No thanks at all—glad to accommodate a stranger."
The white door indicated opened into a little low, dark room that smelled of all the pies ever baked and several dishes besides. There were several oilcloth-topped tables scattered about, and one or two patrons were eating. As Bob and Betty entered a great gust of laughter came from a corner table where a group of men were gathered.
"Guess that was good advice about the custard pie," whispered Bob mischievously. "Think you can stand it, Betty?"
"I'm so hungry, I could stand anything," declared Betty with vigor. "I'd like a couple of sandwiches and a glass of milk. I guess you have to go up to that counter and bring your orders back with you—I don't see any waiters."
Bob went up to the counter, and Betty sat down at a vacant table and looked about her.
