No one in Mariposa had ever seen anything like the caff. All down the
side of it were the grill fires, with great pewter dish covers that went
up and down on a chain, and you could walk along the row and actually
pick out your own cutlet and then see the French marquis throw it on
to the broiling iron; you could watch a buckwheat pancake whirled
into existence under your eyes and see fowls' legs devilled, peppered,
grilled, and tormented till they lost all semblance of the original
Mariposa chicken.

Mr. Smith, of course, was in his glory.

"What have you got to-day, Alf?" he would say, as he strolled over to
the marquis. The name of the Chief was, I believe Alphonse, but "Alf"
was near enough for Mr. Smith.

The marquis would extend to the proprietor the menu, "Voila, m'sieu, la
carte du jour."

Mr. Smith, by the way, encouraged the use of the French language in
the caff. He viewed it, of course, solely in its relation to the hotel
business, and, I think, regarded it as a recent invention.

"It's comin' in all the time in the city," he said, "and y'aint expected
to understand it."

Mr. Smith would take the carte between his finger and thumb and stare
at it. It was all covered with such devices as Potage la Mariposa--Filet
Mignon a la proprietaire--Cotellete a la Smith, and so on.

But the greatest thing about the caff were the prices. Therein lay, as
everybody saw at once, the hopeless simplicity of Mr. Smith.

The prices stood fast at 25 cents a meal. You could come in and eat all
they had in the caff for a quarter.

"No, sir," Mr. Smith said stoutly, "I ain't going to try to raise no
prices on the public. The hotel's always been a quarter and the caff's a
quarter."

Full? Full of people?

Well, I should think so! From the time the caff opened at 11 till it
closed at 8.30, you could hardly find a table. Tourists, visitors,
travellers, and half the people of Mariposa crowded at the little
tables; crockery rattling, glasses tinkling on trays, corks popping, the
waiters in their white coats flying to and fro, Alphonse whirling the
cutlets and pancakes into the air, and in and through it all, Mr.
Smith, in a white flannel suit and a broad crimson sash about his waist.
Crowded and gay from morning to night, and even noisy in its hilarity.

Noisy, yes; but if you wanted deep quiet and cool, if you wanted to step
from the glare of a Canadian August to the deep shadow of an enchanted
glade,--walk down below