one of the fortunate ones who dine expensively you
should be interested to know how the other half consumes provisions. And
if you belong to the half to whom waiters' checks are things of moment,
you should know Bogle's, for there you get your money's worth--in
quantity, at least.

Bogle's is situated in that highway of _bourgeoisie_, that boulevard of
Brown-Jones-and-Robinson, Eighth Avenue. There are two rows of tables in
the room, six in each row. On each table is a caster-stand, containing
cruets of condiments and seasons. From the pepper cruet you may shake a
cloud of something tasteless and melancholy, like volcanic dust. From
the salt cruet you may expect nothing. Though a man should extract a
sanguinary stream from the pallid turnip, yet will his prowess be balked
when he comes to wrest salt from Bogle's cruets. Also upon each table
stands the counterfeit of that benign sauce made "from the recipe of a
nobleman in India."

At the cashier's desk sits Bogle, cold, sordid, slow, smouldering, and
takes your money. Behind a mountain of toothpicks he makes your change,
files your check, and ejects at you, like a toad, a word about the
weather. Beyond a corroboration of his meteorological statement you
would better not venture. You are not Bogle's friend; you are a fed,
transient customer, and you and he may not meet again until the blowing
of Gabriel's dinner horn. So take your change and go--to the devil if
you like. There you have Bogle's sentiments.

The needs of Bogle's customers were supplied by two waitresses and a
Voice. One of the waitresses was named Aileen. She was tall, beautiful,
lively, gracious and learned in persiflage. Her other name? There
was no more necessity for another name at Bogle's than there was for
finger-bowls.

The name of the other waitress was Tildy. Why do you suggest Matilda?
Please listen this time--Tildy--Tildy. Tildy was dumpy, plain-faced, and
too anxious to please to please. Repeat the last clause to yourself once
or twice, and make the acquaintance of the duplicate infinite.

The Voice at Bogle's was invisible. It came from the kitchen, and
did not shine in the way of originality. It was a heathen Voice, and
contented itself with vain repetitions of exclamations emitted by the
waitresses concerning food.

Will it tire you to be told again that Aileen was beautiful? Had she
donned a few hundred dollars' worth of clothes and joined the Easter
parade, and had you seen her, you