his anxious scanning of
our large clock. By 5.40 he was a wreck and the clock had nearly been
glared off its hinges. Then it was a waiter called out to me the first
evening order. With the crucified steps of a martyr, a ten-minute-hungry
martyr at that, Schmitz made his way over to fill that order. And
there I was, busily filling it myself! Of course, I hope I have made
it clear that Schmitz was the kind who would say, "I knew she was
there all along."

The rush of this particular Thursday night! More lettuce had to be
sent for in the middle of the evening, more tomatoes, more
blackberries, more cantaloupes, more bread for toast. There was no
stopping for breath. In the midst of the final scrubbings and
cleanings came an order of "One combination salad, Sweetheart!" That
done and removed and there sounded down the way, "One cantaloupe,
Honey!" Back the waiter came in a moment. "The old party says it's too
ripe." There were only two left to choose from. "Knock his slats in
if he don't like that, the old fossil." In another moment the waiter
was back again with the second half. "He says he don't want no
cantaloupe, anyhow. Says he meant an order of Philadelphia cream
cheese."

But nine o'clock came round and somehow the chores were all done and
Schmitz nodded his regal head ever so little--his sign for, "Madam,
you may take your departure," and up I flew through the almost
deserted main kitchen, up the three flights to the service floor, down
four flights to the time-clock floor (elevators weren't always handy),
to be greeted by my friend the time-clock man with his broad grin and
his, "Well, if here ain't my little bunch o' love!"

If he and Schmitz could only have gotten mixed a bit in the original
kneading....

By Saturday of that week I began my diary: "Goodness! I couldn't stand
this pace long--waiters are too affectionate." I mention such a matter
and go into some detail over their affection here and there, because
it was in no sense personal. I mean that any girl working at my job,
provided she was not too ancient and too toothless and too ignorant of
the English language, would have been treated with equal enthusiasm.
True, a good-looking Irishman did say to me one evening, "I keep
thinkin' to myself durin' the day, what is there about you that's
different. I shure like it a lot what it is, but I just can't put my
finger on it." I used as bad grammar as the next; I appeared, I
hoped, as ignorant as the next.