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Page 38
But lunch was still to be considered. The club is happy to add The
American Hotel, Hoboken, to its private list of places where it has
been serenely happy. Consider corned beef hash, with fried egg,
excellent, for 25 cents. Consider rhubarb pie, quite adequate, for
10 cents. Consider the courteous and urbane waiter. In one corner of
the dining room was the hotel office, with a large array of push
buttons communicating with the bedrooms. The club, its imagination
busy, conceived that these were for the purpose of awakening
seafaring guests early in the morning, so as not to miss their ship.
If we were, for instance, second mate of the _Hauppauge_, and came
to port in Hoboken, The American Hotel would be just the place where
we would want to put up.
That brings us back to the _Hauppauge_. We wonder who bought her,
and how much he paid; and why she carries the odd name of that Long
Island village? If he would only invite us over to see her--and tell
us how to get there!
[Illustration]
THE CLUB AT ITS WORST
A barbecue and burgoo of the Three Hours for Lunch Club was held,
the club's medical adviser acting as burgoomaster and Mr. Lawton
Mackall, the managing director, as jest of honour. The news that
Lawton was at large spread rapidly through the city, and the club
was trailed for some distance by an infuriated agent of the Society
for the Deracination of Puns. But Lawton managed to kick over his
traces, and the club safely gained the quiet haven of a Cedar Street
chophouse. Here, when the members were duly squeezed into a stall,
the Doctor gazed cheerfully upon Endymion and the Secretary who held
the inward places. "Now is my chance," he cried, "to kill two bards
with one stone."
Lawton, says the stenographic report, was in excellent form, and
committed a good deal of unforgivable syntax. He was somewhat
apprehensive when he saw the bill of fare inscribed "Ye Olde Chop
House," for he asserts that the use of the word "Ye" always involves
extra overhead expense--and a quotation from Shakespeare on the back
of the menu, he doubted, might mean a couvert charge. But he was
distinctly cheered when the kidneys and bacon arrived--a long strip
of bacon gloriously balanced on four very spherical and
well-lubricated kidneys. Smiling demurely, even blandly, Lawton
rolled his sheave of bacon to and fro upon its kidneys. "This is the
first time I ever saw bacon with ball bearings," he ejaculated. He
gazed with the eye of a connoisseur upon the rather candid works of
art hanging over the club's corner. He said they reminded him of Mr.
Coles Phillips's calf-tones. The Doctor was speaking of having
read an interesting dispatch by Mr. Grasty in the _Times_. "I
understand," said Lawton, "that he is going to collect some of his
articles in a book, to be called 'Leaves of Grasty'."
Duly ambered with strict and cloudy cider, the meal progressed,
served with humorous comments by the waitress whom the club calls
the Venus of Mealo. The motto of the club is _Tres Horas Non Numero
Nisi Serenas_, and as the afternoon was still juvenile the gathering
was transferred to the waterfront. Passing onto the pier, Lawton
gazed about him with admirable na�vet�. Among the piles of freight
were some agricultural machines. "Ha," cried the managing director,
"this, evidently, is where the Piers Plowman works!" The club's
private yacht, white and lovely, lay at her berth, and in the
Doctor's cabin the members proceeded to the serious discussion of
literature. Lawton, however, seemed nervous. Cargo was being put
aboard the ship, and ever and anon there rose a loud rumbling of
donkey engines. The occasional hurrying roar of machinery seemed to
make Lawton nervous, for he said apprehensively that he feared
someone was rushing the growler. In the corridor outside the
Doctor's quarters a group of stewardesses were violently
altercating, and Lawton remarked that a wench can make almost as
much noise as a winch. On the whole, however, he admired the ship
greatly, and was taken with the club's plans for going cruising. He
said he felt safer after noting that the lifeboats were guaranteed
to hold forty persons with cubic feet.
By this time, all sense of verbal restraint had been lost, and the
club (if we must be candid) concluded its session by chanting, not
without enjoyment, its own sea chantey, which runs as follows:--
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