umped into the A1 class. Some people and all tailors judge men by their
backs.

Being sure of the guests, Hendrik Rutgers went forth in search of their
dinner. To feed fivescore starving fellow-men was a noble deed; to feed
them at the expense of some one else was even higher. So, dressed in his
frock-coat, wearing his high hat as though it was a crown, he sought
Caspar Weinpusslacher. The owner of the "Colossal Restaurant," just off
the Bowery, gave a square meal for a quarter of a dollar, twenty-five
cents; for thirty cents he gave the same meal with a paper napkin and
the privilege of repeating the potato or the pie. His kitchen
organization was perfect. His cooks and scullions had served in the
German army in similar capacities, and he ruled them like one born and
brought up in the General Staff. His waiters also were recruited from
the greatest training-school for waiters in the world. He operated on a
system approved by an efficiency expert. By giving low wages to people
who were glad to get them, paying cash for his supplies and judiciously
selecting the latter just on the eve of their spoiling, he was able to
give an astonishingly good meal for the money. His profits, however,
depended upon his selling his entire output. This did not always
happen. Some days Herr Weinpusslacher almost lost three dollars.

No system is perfect. Otherwise hotel men would wish to live for ever.

Hendrik stalked into the Colossal dining-room and snarled at one of the
waiters:

"Where's your boss?"

The waiter knew it couldn't be the Kaiser, or a millionaire. It must
therefore be a walking delegate. He deferentially pointed to a short,
fat man by the bar.

"Tell him to come here," said Rutgers, and sat down at a table. It isn't
so much in knowing whom to order about, but in acquiring the habit of
ordering everybody about, that wins.

Caspar Weinpusslacher received the message, walked toward the table and
signaled to a Herculean waiter, who unobtrusively drew near--and in the
rear--of H. Rutgers.

Hendrik pointed commandingly to a chair across the table. C.
Weinpusslacher obeyed. The Herculean waiter, to account for his
proximity, flicked non-existent crumbs on the napeless surface of the
table.

"Recklar tinner?" he queried, in his best Delmonico.

"_Geht-weg!_" snarled Mr. Rutgers. The waiter, a nostalgic look in his
big blue eyes, went away. _Ach_, to be treated like a dog! Ach, the
Fatherland! And the officers! _Ach!_