as a very chippy-looking waiter--pug
nose, long upper lip. When he ordered ice coffee he sneaked up on the
Greek a la Bill Hart, ready to pull a gun on him. He had two names at
his disposal and used one or the other with every order, no matter who
the chef was. In a very deep tone of voice, it was either, "James,
custard pie!" or, "Dinsmore, one veal cutlet." But to me it was
always: "Ah there, little one! Toast, I say _toast_. Dry, little one.
Ah yes! There be them who out of force of habit inflicted upon them
take even their toast dry. You get me, little one?"

He was especially immaculate this Thursday. I guessed he must be
taking at least three ladies out that evening. He looked at me out of
the corner of his eyes. "_Three_, little one, this hot night? Winter
time, yes, a man can stand a crowd about him, but not to-night. No.
To-night, little one, I take but one lady. It allows for more
circulation of air. And you will be that One?"

The Greek this hot Thursday became especially friendly. He twirled his
heavy black mustache and carried on an animated broken-English
conversation most of the afternoon. Incidentally, he sent over one ice
coffee with thick cream and two frosted chocolates.

The little Spaniard next to him, he who served pies and ice cream and
more amazing desserts--he, too, became very friendly. There was
nothing the least fresh about the little Spaniard. He mostly leaned on
his counter, in moments of lull in trade, and when I so much as looked
his way, he sighed heavily. Finally he made bold to converse. I
learned that he had been two years in this country, eight months at
his present job. When I asked him how he spent his off time, he
replied in his very broken English that he knew nobody and went
nowhere. "It is no pleasure to go alone." He rooms with an American
family on the East Side. They are very nice. For some years he had
been in the printing trade in South America; there was something to a
job like that. But in New York he did not know enough English to be a
printer, and so, somehow, he found himself dishing pies and ice cream
at our hotel.

Later on that day he asked me, "Why are you so happy?"

Indeed I was very cheerful and made no secret of it. I had sung every
song I knew and then whistled them all as I worked. But Schmitz, who
surely had never smiled in all his life, could stand it no longer.
"You better not make so much noise," he said. "You see, it's dis
vay--" Poor Schmitz, he