what the dark-eyed, dark-haired twenty-year-old daughter would be at about forty; but his sensitive nostrils at once detected the exhalation of provincialism—and also a pungent discontent. Indeed, as he came nearer, he thought he had never seen two silent ladies more earnestly engaged in expressing peevishness.
A table steward was bending over the occupant of the third chair and trying to explain in imperfect English an item upon the large cardboard menu, behind which this person's face was momentarily concealed from public view. His shoulders were revealed, however, and something in their breadth and thickness disquieted Ogle as he took his seat. Then disquiet became rapidly a sickish apprehension, and apprehension as abruptly exchanged itself for the full shock of dismay.
The person engaged with the steward tossed the menu, which was printed in Italian, upon the table. "Oh, my gosh!" he exclaimed in a voice disreputably hoarse. "Bring us the worst you got, as long as it ain't spaghetti. I been eatin' spaghetti for three days because it's the only thing I know the name of. My gosh!"
It was the execrable Tinker. He and his family
