If you do not know Bogle’s Chop House and FamilyRestaurant it is your loss. For if you are one of the fortunateones who dine expensively you should be interested toknow how the other half consumes provisions. And if youbelong to the half to whom waiters’ checks are things ofmoment， you should know Bogle’s， for there you get yourmoney’s worth—in quantity， at least.
Bogle’s is situated in that highway of bourgeoisie， thatboulevard of Brown-Jones-and-Robinson， Eighth Avenue.
There are two rows of tables in the room， six in eachrow. On each table is a caster-stand， containing cruets fcondiments and seasons. From the pepper cruet you mayshake a cloud of something tasteless and melancholy， likevolcanic dust. From the salt cruet you may expect nothing.
Though a man should extract a sanguinary stream fromthe pallid turnip， yet will his prowess be balked when hecomes to wrest salt from Bogle’s cruets. Also upon eachtable 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 mountainof 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 statementyou would better not venture. You are not Bogle’s friend；you are a fed， transient customer， and you and he may notmeet again until the blowing of Gabriel’s dinner horn. Sotake your change and go—to the devil if you like. Thereyou have Bogle’s sentiments.
The needs of Bogle’s customers were supplied by twowaitresses and a Voice. One of the waitresses was namedAileen. She was tall， beautiful， lively， gracious and learnedin persiflage. Her other name？ There was no morenecessity for another name at Bogle’s than there was forfinger-bowls.
The name of the other waitress was Tildy. Why do yousuggest Matilda？ Please listen this time—Tildy—Tildy.
Tildy was dumpy， plain-faced， and too anxious to pleaseto 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 thekitchen， and did not shine in the way of originality. It wasa heathen Voice， and contented itself with vain repetitionsof exclamations emitted by the waitresses concerningfood.
Will it tire you to be told again that Aileen was beautiful？
Had she donned a few hundred dollars’ worth of clothesand joined the Easter parade， and had you seen her， youwould have hastened to say so yourself.
The customers at Bogle’s were her slaves. Six tables fullshe could wait upon at once. They who were in a hurryrestrained their impatience for the joy of merely gazingupon her swiftly moving， graceful figure. They who hadfinished eating ate more that they might continue inthe light of her smiles. Every man there—and they weremostly men—tried to make his impression upon her.
Aileen could successfully exchange repartee against adozen at once. And every smile that she sent forth lodged，like pellets from a scatter-gun， in as many hearts. And allthis while she would be performing astounding feats withorders of pork and beans， pot roasts， ham-and， sausageand-the-wheats， and any quantity of things on the ironand in the pan and straight up and on the side. Withall this feasting and flirting and merry exchange of witBogle’s came mighty near being a salon， with Aileen for itsMadame Récamier.
If the transients were entranced by the fascinatingAileen， the regulars were her adorers. There was muchrivalry among many of the steady customers. Aileen couldhave had an engagement every evening. At least twicea week some one took her to a theatre or to a dance.
One stout gentleman whom she and Tildy had privatelychristened “The Hog” presented her with a turquoise ring.
Another one known as “Freshy，” who rode on the TractionCompany’s repair wagon， was going to give her a poodle assoon as his brother got the hauling contract in the Ninth.
And the man who always ate spareribs and spinach andsaid he was a stock broker asked her to go to “Parsifal”
with him.
“I don’t know where this place is，” said Aileen whiletalking it over with Tildy， “but the wedding-ring’s got to beon before I put a stitch into a travelling dress—ain’t thatright？ Well， I guess！”
But， Tildy！
In steaming， chattering， cabbage-scented Bogle’s therewas almost a heart tragedy. Tildy with the blunt nose，the hay-coloured hair， the freckled skin， the bag-o’-mealfigure， had never had an admirer. Not a man followed herwith his eyes when she went to and fro in the restaurantsave now and then when they glared with the beast-hungerfor food. None of them bantered her gaily to coquettishinterchanges of wit. None of them loudly “jollied” herof mornings as they did Aileen， accusing her， when theeggs were slow in coming， of late hours in the companyof envied swains. No one had ever given her a turquoisering or invited her upon a voyage to mysterious， distant“Parsifal.”
Tildy was a good waitress， and the men tolerated her.
They who sat at her tables spoke to her briefly withquotations from the bill of fare； and then raised theirvoices in honeyed and otherwise-flavoured accents，eloquently addressed to the fair Aileen. They writhed intheir chairs to gaze around and over the impending formof Tildy， that Aileen’s pulchritude might season and makeambrosia of their bacon and eggs.
And Tildy was content to be the unwooed drudge ifAileen could receive the flattery and the homage. Theblunt nose was loyal to the short Grecian. She was Aileen’sfriend； and she was glad to see her rule hearts and weanthe attention of men from smoking pot-pie and lemonmeringue. But deep below our freckles and hay-colouredhair the unhandsomest of us dream of a prince or aprincess， not vicarious， but coming to us alone.
There was a morning when Aileen tripped in to workwith a slightly bruised eye； and Tildy’s solicitude wasalmost enough to heal any optic.