ed at the new-comers, brushed the soiled table-cloth
before them with a towel on his arm, covered its worst stains with a
napkin, and brought them, in their order, the vermicelli soup, the fried
fish, the cheese-strewn spaghetti, the veal cutlets, the tepid roast
fowl and salad, and the wizened pear and coffee which form the dinner at
such places.

"Ah, this is nice!" said Fulkerson, after the laying of the charitable
napkin, and he began to recognize acquaintances, some of whom he
described to March as young literary men and artists with whom they
should probably have to do; others were simply frequenters of the
place, and were of all nationalities and religions apparently--at least,
several were Hebrews and Cubans. "You get a pretty good slice of New
York here," he said, "all except the frosting on top. That you won't
find much at Maroni's, though you will occasionally. I don't mean
the ladies ever, of course." The ladies present seemed harmless and
reputable-looking people enough, but certainly they were not of the
first fashion, and, except in a few instances, not Americans. "It's like
cutting straight down through a fruitcake," Fulkerson went on, "or a
mince-pie, when you don't know who made the pie; you get a little of
everything." He ordered a small flask of Chianti with the dinner, and
it came in its pretty wicker jacket. March smiled upon it with tender
reminiscence, and Fulkerson laughed. "Lights you up a little. I brought
old Dryfoos here one day, and he thought it was sweet-oil; that's the
kind of bottle they used to have it in at the country drug-stores."

"Yes, I remember now; but I'd totally forgotten it," said March. "How
far back that goes! Who's Dryfoos?"

"Dryfoos?" Fulkerson, still smiling, tore off a piece of the half-yard
of French loaf which had been supplied them, with two pale, thin disks
of butter, and fed it into himself. "Old Dryfoos? Well, of course! I
call him old, but he ain't so very. About fifty, or along there."

"No," said March, "that isn't very old--or not so old as it used to be."

"Well, I suppose you've got to know about him, anyway," said Fulkerson,
thoughtfully. "And I've been wondering just how I should tell you. Can't
always make out exactly how much of a Bostonian you really are! Ever
been out in the natural-gas country?"

"No," said March. "I've had a good deal of curiosity about it, but
I've never been able to get away except in summer, and then we always
preferred to