touching on vitally important matters. I visualized a
suitable luncheon for one banting according to the newest and most
generally approved formula:

=RELISH=
MIXED GELATINOIDS

=POTAGE=
STRAINED NITROGEN GUMBO

=ENTREE=
GRILLED PROTEIDS WITH GLOBULIN PATTIES

=DESSERT=
COMPOTE OF ASSORTED VITAMINES

Or the alternative course for one sincerely desirous of reducing, who
believed everything he saw in print, was to cut out all the proscribed
articles of food--which meant everything edible except spinach--and starve
gracefully on a diet composed exclusively of boiled spinach, with the
prospect of dying a dark green death in from three to six weeks and
providing one's own protective coloration if entombed in a cemetery
containing cedars.

Personally I was not favorably inclined toward either plan, so I elected
to let my conscience be my guide, backed by personal observation and
personal experimentation. I was traveling pretty constantly this past
spring, and in the smoking compartments of the Pullmans, where all men,
for some curious reason, grow garrulous and confidential, I put crafty
leading questions to such of my fellow travelers as were over-sized and
made mental notes of their answers for my own subsequent use. Since the
Eighteenth Amendment put the nineteenth hole out of commission,
prohibition and how to evade it are the commonest of all conversational
topics among those moving about from place to place in America; but the
subject of what a man eats, and more particularly what he eats for
breakfast, runs it a close second for popularity.

For example, there is the seasoned trans-atlantic tourist who, on the
occasion of a certain terrifically stormy passage, was for three days the
only person on board excepting the captain who never missed a single meal.
You find him everywhere; there must be a million or more of him; and he
loves to talk about it, and he does.

But even more frequently encountered is the veteran drummer--no, beg
pardon, the veteran district sales manager, for there aren't any drummers
any more, or even any traveling salesmen; but instead we have district
sales managers featuring strong selling points--I say, even more
frequently encountered is the veteran district sales manager, wearing a
gravy-colored waistcoat if a tasty dresser, or a waistcoat of a
nongravy-colored or contrasting shade if careless, who craves to tell
strangers what, customarily, he eats for breakfast.

I made it a