food,” mumbled Stanley. “Why don’t they bring in what you order instead of putting everything on the table at once?”
“O my son, my son!” choked Bub, holding his sides. Then in a mincing voice, “Waiter, I will have a bit of a bean and a sprig of spruce—”
“Shut up!” snarled Stanley.
“Say, Red-head, shoot over them biscuit. Be ye deef?” called out a black whiskered man across the table. Stanley’s face reddened and he opened his mouth to resent the tone and language, but mastered himself and silently obeyed the rough request.
Bub nudged him and whispered, “That’s better. I have some hopes for you. Remember, you are only a kitchen boy for the present. If you ain’t got nerve enough to be that and be it right you’ll never amount to shucks at anything else up here.”
“Let’s get out of here,” was Stanley’s answer.
Bub looked ruefully at his plate, recently refilled, but stifling a sigh rose and ushered his new friend, not to the outer air, but to the kitchen.
“You must meet the cook. He’s your boss. Try and be pleasant. You won’t disturb him
