"Only, I don't wish my feelings
considered. Not in the least. If you care to send back the salad I
will gladly--"
Westy glances appealin' towards me.
"Torchy," says he, "couldn't you--"
Couldn't I, though! Say, I'd just been yearnin' to crash into this
affair for the last five minutes. I'd remembered Cyril. At least, I
thought I had. And I proceeds to rap for order with a table-knife.
"Excuse me, Mr. Snee," says I, "but you ain't been called on for a
monologue. You can print the whole story of how kitchen neutrality was
violated, issue a yellow book, if you like; but just for the minute try
to forget that assault with the roast and see if you can remember ever
havin' met me before. Can you?"
Don't seem to faze Cyril a bit. He takes a good look at me and then
shakes his head.
"I'm sorry, sir," says he, "but I'm afraid I'm stupid about such
things. I can sometimes recall names very readily, but faces--"
"How long since you quit jugglin' pies and sandwiches at the
quick-lunch joint?" says I.
"Three months, sir," says he prompt.
"Tied the can to you, did they?" says I.
"I was discharged, sir," says Cyril. "The proprietor objected to my
talking so much to customers. I suppose he was quite right. One of my
many failings, sir.
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