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In A Pioneer Restaurant
by
“Why?”
“Well, to make matters clear, I’m obliged to tell you something that in our business we usually keep a secret. About three weeks ago I had a notice to transfer twenty feet of Gold Hill to a fellow named ‘Tournelli.’ Well, Tournelli happened to call for it himself, and who the devil do you suppose Tournelli was? Why our Italian waiter. I was regularly startled, and so was he. But business is business; so I passed him over the stock and said nothing–nor did he–neither there nor here. Day before yesterday he had thirty feet more transferred to him, and sold out.”
“Well?” I said impatiently.
“Well,” repeated Tallant indignantly. “Gold Hill’s worth six hundred dollars a foot. That’s eighteen thousand dollars cash. And a man who’s good enough for that much money is too good to wait upon me. Fancy a man who could pay my whole year’s salary with five feet of stock slinging hash to ME. Fancy YOU tipping him with a quarter!”
“But if HE don’t mind it–and prefers to continue a waiter–why should YOU care? And WE’RE not supposed to know.”
“That’s just it,” groaned Tallant. “That’s just where the sell comes in. Think how he must chuckle over us! No, sir! There’s nothing aristocratic about me; but, by thunder, if I can’t eat my dinner, and feel I am as good as the man who waits on me, I’ll resign from the Club.”
After endeavoring to point out to him the folly of such a proceeding, I finally suggested that we should take the other members of our Club into our confidence, and abide by their decision; to which he agreed. But, to his chagrin, the others, far from participating in his delicacy, seemed to enjoy Tournelli’s unexpected wealth with a vicarious satisfaction and increase of dignity as if we were personally responsible for it. Although it had been unanimously agreed that we should make no allusions, jocose or serious, to him, nor betray any knowledge of it before him, I am afraid our attitude at the next dinner was singularly artificial. A nervous expectancy when he approached us, and a certain restraint during his presence, a disposition to check any discussion of shares or “strikes” in mining lest he should think it personal, an avoidance of unnecessary or trifling “orders,” and a singular patience in awaiting their execution when given; a vague hovering between sympathetic respect and the other extreme of indifferent bluntness in our requests, tended, I think, to make that meal far from exhilarating. Indeed, the unusual depression affected the unfortunate cause of it, who added to our confusion by increased solicitude of service and–as if fearful of some fault, or having incurred our disfavor–by a deprecatory and exaggerated humility that in our sensitive state seemed like the keenest irony. At last, evidently interpreting our constraint before him into a desire to be alone, he retired to the door of a distant pantry, whence he surveyed us with dark and sorrowful Southern eyes. Tallant, who in this general embarrassment had been imperfectly served, and had eaten nothing, here felt his grievance reach its climax, and in a sudden outbreak of recklessness he roared out, “Hi, waiter–you, Tournelli. He may,” he added, turning darkly to us, “buy up enough stock to control the board and dismiss ME; but, by thunder, if it costs me my place, I’m going to have some more chicken!”
It was probably this sensitiveness that kept us from questioning him, even indirectly, and perhaps led us into the wildest surmises. He was acting secretly for a brotherhood or society of waiters; he was a silent partner of his German employer; he was a disguised Italian stockbroker, gaining “points” from the unguarded conversation of “operating” customers; he was a political refugee with capital; he was a fugitive Sicilian bandit, investing his ill-gotten gains in California; he was a dissipated young nobleman, following some amorous intrigue across the ocean, and acting as his own Figaro or Leporello. I think a majority of us favored the latter hypothesis, possibly because we were young, and his appearance gave it color. His thin black mustaches and dark eyes, we felt, were Tuscan and aristocratic; at least, they were like the baritone who played those parts, and HE ought to know. Yet nothing could be more exemplary and fastidious than his conduct towards the few lady frequenters of the “Poodle Dog” restaurant, who, I regret to say, were not puritanically reserved or conventual in manner.