voo
conversation is bubblin' out of him like water out of a bu'sted fire
hydrant.

"Ah, quit it!" says I. "This is no camp meetin'."

There's no shuttin' him off, though, and all the let-up he takes is to
break off now and then to get Jarvis to tell him once more that it's all
true.

"You make _certainement_, eh?" says he. "Nobody was keel?"

"Not a soul," says Jarvis. "I didn't even hear of anyone that was made
ill."

"Ah, _merci, merci_!" howls Heiney, beginnin' the rockin' horse act
again.

"Say, for the love of Pete, Heiney!" says I, "will you saw that off
before you draw a crowd? I'm glad you believe Jarvis, and that Jarvis
believes you; but hanged if I can quite swallow any such dopy yarn as
that without somethin' more convincin'! All I know about you is that
you're the worst floor scrubber I ever saw. And you say you was a cook,
do you?"

"Cook!" says Heiney, swellin' up his chest. "I am tell you zat I was ze
premier chef. I have made for myself fame. Everywhere in _l'Europe_ zey
will tell you of me. For the king of ze Englise I have made a dinner.
_Moi!_ I have invent ze sauce Ravignon. From nozzing at all--some meat
scraps, some leetle greens--I produce ze dish ravishment."

"Yes, I've heard bluffs like that before," says I; "but I never saw one
made good. Tell you what I'll do, though: In the far corner of the gym,
there, is what Swifty Joe calls his kitchenet, where he warms up his
chowder and beans. There's a two-burner gas stove, an old fryin' pan, and
a coffee pot. Now here's a dollar. You take that out on Sixth-ave. and
spend it for meat scraps and leetle greens. Then you come back here, and
while Jarvis and I are takin' a little exercise, if you can hash up
anything that's fit to eat, I'll believe your whole yarn. Do you make the
try?"

Does he? Say, you never saw such a tickled Frenchy in your life. Before
Jarvis and me had got nicely peeled down for our delayed boxin' bout,
Heiney is back with his bundles, has got the fryin' pan scoured, the gas
blazin', and is throwin' things together like a juggler doin' a stage
turn.

He sheds the blue jumper, ties a bath towel around him for an apron,
makes a hat out of a paper bag, and twists some of that stringy lip
decoration of his into a pointed mustache. Honest, he didn't look nor act
any more like the wreck that had dragged the mop in there half an hour
before than I look like Bill Taft. And by the time we've had our three
rounds and a rub dow