Double or Quits

by George Robey

England's Greatest Comedian Makes Fun of Himself

Double or Quits

In Which We Have a Piece of Work that May be Called Unique—the Author Deliberately Puts Himself into a Story and—a Successful One

By George Robey
Author of "My Rest Cure," etc.

MY FRIENDS, Jimmie Baker and Billy, are not what you might can out-and-out bad, but they have a genius for arousing murderous instincts in the breasts of their fellow men. And they are not what you might call downright idiotic; but one can't be help hoping, for the good of the race, that their children will take after the mother's side of the family.

Of course, what is really the matter with them is that they are lacking in imagination. It is this complete lack of imagination that makes than fail to realize why I have to work for my living.

Billy and Jimmie are persuaded that I don't work. Of course, where I made a mistake was in trying to argue with them. I ought to have left them in the condition of ignorance which is natural to them. Instead of which I tried to show to their stolid, unimaginative minds what my work really meant.

Jimmie, if I remember rightly, remarked that the Lord only knew what it meant.

One word led to another, and then Billy said something perfectly foolish about the laboring man and the sweat of his brow.

I assured him that compared to the sweat of my brow the laboring man's was a mere drop in the ocean. Then we had another word or two and in the end I undertook to beat the laboring man at his own job. I pointed out that a man of my initiative and intelligence could do the work of the average working man far better and more successfully than he could.

To prove this, I undertook to earn my living as plain John Robinson for not less than one week at any reasonable occupation Billy and Jimmie chose to name, and I backed my offer with a note of two hundred and fifty pounds.

And that is the history of how I came to end a short vacation first as a railway porter, then as a rag-and-bone merchant, then as night porter at a famous hotel and, finally, as a waiter at the Restaurant Bellini.

Upon the first three of these experiences I need dwell but briefly, since they themselves were brief.

Of my activities as a railway porter, suffice it to state that, owing to some trifling difference of opinion with the station-master, I found it inconvenient to continue for the stipulated week. But I unhesitatingly bet my friends double or quits that a distinguished career lay before in any other branch of manual labor they chose to name. Thus I became a rag-and-bone merchant.

I should have succeeded brilliantly in this profession had it not been for the effect of the hot weather upon a quantity of hare and rabbit skins which, pending disposal, I had stored in the billiard-room, The high-handed action of the sanitary authorities, coupled with the unsympathetic attitude of my family, induced me to relinquish this calling.

Realizing what Jimmie and Billy failed to do, namely, that not lack of ability but force of circumstances was the cause of my apparent failure, I remained undaunted. Again I offered them double or quits—to wit, one thousand pounds—and challenged them to select for me another calling involving the healthy action of the pores of the skin. They named it and I became night porter at the Magnifique.

Upon the details of my meteoric career at the abode of the Idle Rich I need not dwell. I will content myself with asking, how was I to know that the old gentleman was merely smoking a pipe in bed and that his room was not on fire? My prompt use of the hose might have saved hundreds of valuable lives. But there is no pleasing some people. As might have been expected, Jimmie and Billy also failed to understand.

 

I QUOTE their remarks—and my replies—verbatim, as showing my friends' peculiar denseness.

"So, you see, George, you've been beaten," said Billy Archer.

"Beaten!" I exclaimed. "How do you make that out?"

"Why, this last stunt of yours, old man, this night porter business; surely that's convinced you?"

"Convinced me of what?"

"Why, that you're absolutely incapable of earning an honest living," chimed in Jimmie. "The sweat of your brow doesn't stand an earthly. It's market value is simply nil."

"Not at all," I retorted. "I am not at all convinced. I have had a phenomenal run of ill luck, that's all. But I am not yet beaten—far from it. Wait and see. I have still another week's holiday to run. In that week I am going to make good. Double or quits that I make good."

"George, you fool—two thousand pounds," said Billy. "You're going to lose it."

"I am willing to risk it. Do you take me?"

"It's sheer lunacy," said Billy. "But, of course, if you enjoy chucking away a couple of thousand, Jimmie and I aren't going to stand in your way, eh, Jimmie?"

"I'm not sure," replied Jimmie. "I'm an honest man and I'm not sure that I can reconcile it with my conscience. George is such a hopeless idiot, it's like robbing the widow and the fatherless."

"Well, if he chooses to keep on being an idiot, it's his lookout," remarked Billy. "He evidently likes losing money, positively revels in it, so you and I might as well reap the benefit as anybody."

"What do you propose to do now, George?" demanded Jimmie.

"That I am, as usual prepared to leave to you,"I said with superb indifference. "Name any kind of work you like. I am not afraid."

Billy and Jimmie looked inquiringly at one another.

"Bricklayer? Miner? Engine-driver?" murmured Jimmie. "All skilled labor. No good."

"Bartender?" suggested Billy, inspired by his environment.

Jimmie shook his head.

"Hardly fair," he said. "The temptation—" he glanced at me kindly. "With his nature—no, old chap, it might be his downfall."

"Ha!" cried Billy. "Downfall! That's given me an idea. Downfall—drunken brawl—police. A policeman! Why not a policeman?"

Again Jimmie shook his head.

"He couldn't pass the entrance exam. They're very strict. The spelling alone——"

"P'raps you're right. Something easier. We don't want to be too hard on him."

Jimmie thought for a moment

"Suppose we leave it to chance," he said suddenly. "Suppose we agree that he takes the first job that comes along in the course of to-day? The first reasonable job, of course."

"Right!" said Billy. "Are you game, George?"

"Perfectly," I replied. "Come and lunch with me, and then we'll have a look around."

"Sorry, old chap," said Jimmie. "Can't lunch with you. Promised to feed at a God-forsaken hole in the city. Beastly place, run by our parlor-maid's brother."

"Beastly place, did you say?"

"Yes—cooking vile—attendance damnable—surroundings poisonous——"

"Yet you go there?"

Jimmie nodded.

"She's an excellent parlor-maid," he said. "My wife doesn't want to lose her."

"What!" I exclaimed. "You go to a place you detest—you ruin your digestion and your temper—oh, yes, I've noticed it—you put money in the pocket of an undeserving person—because your parlor-maid threatens to leave if you don't! Why, it's blackmail!"

"Exactly," interjected Billy. "The sort of blackmail we all of us pay in some form or another. You may choose your restaurant, George, but every time you tip the waiter you're paying blackmail."

"Hah!" I said "No doubt you're right; but wait a minute. I've got an idea! A waiter! That's what I'll be. A waiter at this beastly restaurant of yours. You can get me the job, of course?"

"I dare say," said Jimmie.

"Blackmail in another form!" remarked Billy. "Jimmie eats the parlor-maid's brother's filthy food for fear of what the parlor-maid may do and the parlor-maid's brother puts up with George as a waiter for fear of what Jimmie may do. It's a vicious circle."

"I beg your pardon," I said, with acerbity, "it will not be a question of 'putting up' with me. I am not undertaking this job lightly. I am not approaching my task, simple though it be, in a spirit of levity. I intend to work hard. I intend to give every satisfaction. Nay, more. Say the attendance is bad. I shall remedy that. By my example to the other waiters, I speed up the service."

"Oh," said Jimmie.

I ignored the interruption and continued as though no one had spoken.

"You tell me the cooking is vile. Very well. I shall have a heart-to-heart talk with the chef. I shall give him some useful hints. I have one or two little recipes he will be glad of. These will help to raise the tone of the place."

"Bless your innocent heart!" said Jimmie.

Billy gave one of his ridiculous guffaws.

"Raise the place!" he exclaimed. "Raise Cain, more likely. Boss the waiters and interfere with the chef! Good lord, man—" He turned and book Jimmie by the hand. Congratulations, my dear boy," he said. "That two thousand is as good as ours already."

"Not quite, however," I remarked in the quiet way which is so effective. "Come, take me to the Restaurant of the Brother of the Parlor-maid."

 

SIGNOR GIORGIO BELLINI, the proprietor of the Restaurant Bellini, was not aggressively Italian either in appearance or temperament. But he spoke English with a charming Italian accent that changed to pure cockney only in moments of unusual excitement.

At such moments one might be tempted to believe the rumor that his name was in reality George Bell, and that he was born in Whitechapel of worthy and all-British parents.

But this is by the way. Signor Bellini's nationality is of comparatively small importance to this narrative. Whether Rome, Naples or Stratford-atte-Bowe bad been his birthplace, my career at the Restaurant Bellini would still have been what it was.

I had barely been inside the place ten minutes before I realized that Jimmie had but spoken the plain truth. The cooking of the Restaurant Bellini was vile indeed, the waiting execrable, the whole place insufferable.

But I was not depressed. The worse the place, I reflected, the more room far improvement and me.

My spirits rose as I realized how wide was the scope for my talent; to reform the Restaurant Bellini, to lift it from a rank failure into a brilliant success, was certainly a task requiring more than ordinary ability.

I made up my mind to accomplish that task, to strain every nerve, to leave no stone unturned.

At the very outset I was struck by the lackadaisical manner in which the waiters waited. They seemed to think that because the place was half-empty, there was no need for them to hurry.

I particularly noticed that, however disengaged they might be, they invariably kept every customer waiting and seemed to make it a point of honor on no account to produce the food until the guest had given up all hope of seeing it that day.

Being essentially a tactful person, I did not point out their shortcomings to them in so many words. I determined to effect my reforms silently but insidiously, by sheer force of example. By seeing me wait, they would, by degrees, learn how to wait themselves.

There were three of us in all; Ernesto, the head waiter, Alberto and myself.

I had been introduced by Jimmie as John Robinson, but had been immediately Italianized into "Paolo" by Signor Bellini, no doubt in order to keep up the southern atmosphere of the establishment.

I liked being called Paolo. There was a suggestion of recklessness, of mystery and adventure about the appellation: something exotic, as it were. I began to feel intensely Italian.

I was pleased to observe from the outset that Ernesto and Alberto were struck with my method of waiting. True, it seemed to amuse them, for they grinned and whispered together a good deal, and once or twice as they watched me, they laughed audibly. But this did not trouble me. I reflected that the moment they realized the effect of my behavior upon the customers their amusement would turn to admiration and envy.

"You-a get-ta da heart-a diseas-a if-a you-a run about lik-a this-a," said Ernesto.

I explained that I was not afraid of my heart, and that my object in running instead of walking was to serve customers as expeditiously as possible.

"Men hate to be kept waiting for their food," I reminded him.

Ernesto smiled an inscrutable smile. Then he spoke: "In da Restaurante Bellini," he said, "eet ees best-a to keep-a dem waiting for-a food-a da longest possible."

"But why?" I demanded.

Again Ernesto smiled.

"To wait-a," he said, "eet-a mak-a dem very hongry. Et ees only a very hongry man, who-a can eat-a da food-a of da Ristorante Bellini."

I have repeated this little conversation with Ernesto verbatim because it shows so dearly the shocking state of affairs at the Restaurant Bellini.

I made up my mind that things should not go on in this way. I should have to strike at the root of the matter. At the earliest opportunity, I would speak to the chef. I would bring all my tact to bear upon him.

 

MY OPPORTUNITY came sooner than I could possibly have hoped for—on the very evening of my début at Bellini's.

It was the Signor himself who dispatched me to the kitchen in order to find out what had become of a poulet à l'Italien which, even on Ernesto's system of reasoning, had been overlong delayed.

The chef was a fattish man with a large, whitish, dampish face and extraordinarily dirty hands.

He was engaged in the act of separating fragments of the poulet from fragments of broken casserole scattered over the kitchen floor with the help of the sous-chef, a lad of tender years who, judging from the language addressed to him by his chief appeared to have been the cause of the accident.

Having collected it in a fresh casserole, together with as much of the liquor as could be scooped up from the floor, the chef bore the casserole to the sink, turned the hot tap upon the poulet to make good the deficiency of gravy, and popped the dish back into his oven.

Then he turned to me. A little curtly he demanded my business. I explained. He remarked that the dratted old hen would be hot in two ticks.

I wondered whether two ticks would be long enough for me to sow the seeds of reform in the chef's mind. I determined to try.

With my usual quickness of perception, I felt that I would have to be very circumspect, very tactful with this man.

"Yours must be an interesting profession," I began.

"It's a bleeding profession," said the chef.

I saw my opportunity. "But don't you think," I suggested pleasantly, "that a knowledge of cooking might make things easier for you?"

It was said in the most inoffensive manner. I smiled as I spoke. Yet the chef, for some reason, seemed annoyed. His face became suddenly mottled, and he made a gesture with the fish-slice which I took to signify displeasure.

As I was wiping a portion of boiled cod from my face, Ernesto came into the kitchen. With truly Southern intuition he realized that there was something wrong.

He assisted me in reclaiming the piece of fish that had lodged in my right ear, then drew the chef aside and said a few words to him in a low voice.

The words must have been well chosen. Their effect upon the chef was magical.

He burst into a hearty laughter, then came and shook me by the hand.

"Sorrow, sorrow," he said. "I might 'a' know'd it was a joke by yer face. Don't mind me. I'm an 'ot-tempered man but soon over. Allow me—" he picked a portion of cod that had escaped my attention from the middle of my boiled shirt—"Waste not, want not's my motto."

So saying he threw the fragment to the sous-chef, engaged in the occupation of scraping the remains from the dirty plate into the stock-pot.

I was glad that events had taken such a pleasant turn. True it was a little disconcerting to have my remarks treated as a joke. But I hoped that by-and-by, when the chef thought it over, he would recognize the fact that there is a germ of truth in every joke. I therefore did not correct the impression created by Ernesto. I was confident that already I had sown a tiny seed of reform in the chef's breast.

For a moment I wondered whether I might venture upon a second "joke" relative to the condition of the chef's hands.

While I still hesitated, Ernesto spoke. He must have followed the direction of my eyes and read my thoughts.

"Hees hands are-a black-a, yes," he remarked. "Eet ees because he has not yet mada da pastry."

"I beg your pardon?" I murmured.

"Always after-a he has mad-a da pastry," said Ernesto, "da hands of da chef-a are-a white as-a snow."

 

I LEFT the kitchen a little hurriedly. Clearly, there was much to be done.

I will pass over the unimportant details of my first day at the Restaurant Bellini and confine myself to those outstanding incidents only, which will prove to the intelligent reader how much may be accomplished even in a few hours, by earnest endeavor coupled with enthusiasm; and how a sympathetic personality and pleasing mode of address may conquer the disabilities of inexperience.

No one can become a perfect waiter in a single day. It was natural that I should have a few accidents, the result of inexperience.

The old gentleman had been waiting a long time for his soup. He did not realize that this was not my fault, but the fault of the chef. He was becoming seriously ruffled. So seriously that Signor Bellini noticed it and demanded to know what was wrong.

I explained. Signor Bellini hurried across to his infuriated guest and poured apologies upon him with his beautiful Italian accent. Soft liquids and rich vowels flowed from the tongue of Signor Bellini in a honeyed stream. Then he rushed toward the lift.

"Blast his ruddy soup!" he muttered in excellent English, as he snatched the speaking-tube from my hand.

At that moment the lift began to rumble, the soup was ascending.

I pounced upon it, losing not a moment. On winged feet, I conveyed it toward the waiting guest.

"Your soup at last, sir!" I cried, joyfully. "Nice and hot, sir!"

With these words my foot slipped upon a piece of fat and the soup slipped down the old gentleman's neck.

He had asked for it hot—and he had got it, alas!

This was a pure accident—I explained as much as I poured a bottle of salad oil upon the scalded parts.

At first the old gentleman refused to accept my apologies. There was quite a scene.

I could not help reflecting that if we all went to where people are always telling us to go, the place would be hopelessly overcrowded. Therefore I disobeyed the old gentleman. I retired instead to the further end of the room.

Signor Bellini, Ernesto, Alberto and most of the diners gathered round the old gentleman and said things. They mostly talked all at once and from my end of the room I could not hear what they said. But I felt they were talking about me, from the way first one and then another kept on turning round and staring at me.

To my surprise, there was a good deal of laughter. So this incident also, was, somehow, being turned into a joke.

I hoped the old gentleman would be made to see the point. Doubtless he would then forgive me. Personally, I saw nothing to laugh at in this unlucky accident, and I did not see how the poor old gentleman could be expected to laugh. I was amazed to discover that he did. He joined in the laughter quite heartily, and as he retired to put on a dry shirt of Signor Bellini's, he stopped in front of me for a moment to remark, in a most friendly fashion:

"I've enjoyed that soup, waiter. I'll have another plateful!"

From that moment the guests seemed to take me to their hearts. For some reason, I had amused them. And they were grateful to me.

Such was the atmosphere of jollily and good humor I had created that when one of them, wishing to attract my attention, merely called out "Waiter!" there were shouts of laughter.

"Waiter," said this young man to me as I flew to his table. "Can you recommend the fish to-day?"

 

IT WAS then I realized how seriously handicapped I was in my present employment owing to a certain peculiarity of mine which I have already had occasion to refer to, namely, my constitutional inability to tell an untruth. George Washington himself was not more heavily handicapped than I.

Asked therefore, whether I would recommend the fish, what was I to reply?

I felt myself paling perceptibly. Yet I did not waver. There was only one reply that I could make and I made it.

"The fish is filthy," I said.

"Ha! ha!" cried my interlocutor. "Then bring me a double portion. Ha! Ha!"

He turned to an elderly man in a check suit seated at the next table.

"He says the fish is filthy!" he called out to him. The person addressed laughed loudly and repeated, "He says the fish is filthy! Ha! Ha!" to his vis-à-vis.

The vis-à-vis was slightly deaf.

"What say?" he inquired, his hand to his ear.

The other leaned across the table.

"He says the fish is filthy!" He bawled into the deaf one's ear so that the whole dining-room heard him.

One and ail they roared with laughter.

Ernesto and Alberto laughed till the tears rolled down their cheeks. Only Signor Bellini seemed not quite pleased. But he made no comment.

After that, there was quite a run on the fish. Presently, I heard a youth in glasses, who was with a lady friend, remark:

"There's many a true word spoken in jest. What do you say to the ontray, Lil?"

Something compelled me to do it. She looked a nice girl, and I had seen the entrée. Before she had time to answer, I took up the word.

"Believe me," I warned her, "the less you say to the entrée the better."

Again this simple statement was regarded as a sally. Lil and her friend burst out laughing.

"All right, then," said he, "we'd better have a cut off the joint, eh, Fred?"

"Right-o," cried Fred. "Unless he's going to tell us the joint's poisoned!"

At that the two laughed very heartily once more. A swift struggle took place in my mind. Ought I to tell these two that the description of the joint as "sirloin of beef" upon the menu was in all probability a euphemism for something more equestrian?

But, after all, they were not asking me to name the joint.

"No," I said, hesitating over this point of conscience, "I don't think the joint is exactly poisoned."

"Isn't he a yell?" inquired Lil, and the man in the check suit came across to the table and begged to be told what I said.

"He says the less you 'ave to say to the ontray the better, but he don't think the joint's poisoned!" cried the youth, and tears began to roll down his cheeks.

The man in check laughed uproariously and shouted at his deaf companion:

"The less you 'ave to say to the ontray the better, and the joint ain't poisoned!"

The whole restaurant heard him and rocked with laughter.

I looked uneasily in the direction of Signor Bellini. To my relief I saw that his face, too, was wreathed in smiles.

He was chatting to the old gentleman who had had the unfortunate accident with the soup and who had now arrived safely at the cheese-and-celery end of a hearty meal.

Signor Bellini beckoned to me as he caught my eye.

"The Signor Samuelson he wish-a to come here every day," he said, regarding me with a benevolent expression. "You-a will please reserve this tabelle for-a him, Paolo."

"Paolo!" cried Mr. Samuelson. "Ha! Ha! Paolo!" The name appeared to amuse him exceedingly. "I'll be bringing along a couple of friends to-morrow. But, mind, I want to be waited on by Paolo!"

"Yes, yes, all-a right-a, eet shall be Paolo, Signor," cried Bellini, bowing and beaming.

So I had won the old man's heart. The affair of the soup, instead of alienating, had drawn us closer together. Sometimes it happens so: some little contretemps—some slight annoyance—a few words—apologies—forgiveness—eternal friendship.

I was pleased. I was touched.

When late that same night, my labors ended, I reviewed the incidents of the day, I could not repress a feeling of mild elation.

Modest as I am, I was yet unable to blind myself to the fact that, on my very first day I had achieved a measure of popularity with the patrons of the Restaurant Bellini far surpassing that of Ernesto or Alberto, and which Signor Bellini himself had not been slow to recognize.

I was being appreciated. There could be no doubt of that. I had clicked.

 

I AM not given to boasting. Therefore I said little to my wife and nothing at all to Jimmie and Billy of the remarkable impression I had created.

This time I had insisted on Jimmie and Billy giving their word of honor not to go near the Restaurant Bellini until the end of the week, as their presence invariably irritated me and put me off my stroke, as it were. They had brought me nothing but ill-luck so far, and I determined to keep them away from Bellini's until my success was assured.

But the two were waiting for me when I got home that night.

With characteristic brutality, Jimmie inquired whether I had got the sack.

"On the contrary," I replied succinctly.

"What!" exclaimed Billie. "You mean to say they're letting you stop another day?"

I merely inclined my head. Their disappointment was disgusting.

"Ah, well, the week is yet young," Billy remarked. To that I condescended no reply whatever. They bade me "good night," obviously chagrined.

My second day at Bellini's I can only describe as a gratifying revelation.

Lunch-time was, more or less, a repetition of dinner-time the night before. The place was considerably fuller; that was all. Ernesto and Alberto assured me that they had never seen so many customers since the opening day.

I was kept busy. To be frank, I was overworked. Unlike Ernesto and Alberto, I never got a minute's rest.

Ernesto and Alberto were frequently unemployed. Their tables were at times quite empty, while those allotted to me were nearly always full.

From this circumstance, even I, diffident as I am, could draw but one conclusion: I was sought after, Ernesto and Alberto were not.

I was a little sorry for those two. I was afraid they might feel hurt. All these people showed their preference so plainly.

But Ernesto and Alberto did not seem to mind. On the contrary, they seemed positively to enjoy my popularity. During their idle moments they watched me at my work, grinning good-naturedly and Without a trace of jealousy.

I concluded that either their characters were extraordinarily beautiful or else they were lazy and preferred less kudos because it meant less work.

Once more, as on the previous day, I found that my passion for the truth, so far from being a drawback, seemed to be my best friend.

Thus, when some one asked, "Waiter, what is there fit to eat to-day?" and I replied, truthfully, "Nothing, sir," I noticed that everybody laughed heartily and swallowed the inedibles without a murmur.

On that same day I had another striking instance of how a simple statement of the truth will disarm criticism.

I had served a pleasant-faced elderly gentleman with a plate of stewed prunes and was turning away to attend to a customer at the next table when the other called me back.

His voice was agitated. His face was a shade less pleasant than of yore.

He pointed an accusing finger at the prunes.

"Waiter," he said, "what is this beetle doing here?"

I looked at the beetle.

"It's doing nothing, sir," I replied gently. "I'm afraid the poor thing is dead."

Then I explained.

"That's the worst of stewed prunes and the chef being so short-sighted," I said. "He told me he'd picked them all out, but he evidently overlooked that one. It's a thousand pities he doesn't wear glasses."

The customer gazed at me for a few moments, then his face became pleasant once more.

"Take those prunes away and bring me a blanc-mange," he said, with a chuckle.

I discovered that my perfect frankness stood me in good stead in another direction.

Overworked—I might almost say driven—as I was, it was, of course, impossible for me to remember every time exactly what each particular customer had ordered. Sometimes, therefore, I made mistakes.

For instance, I recollect supplying a lady who had ordered steak-and-kidney pudding with a jam roly-poly. She called my attention to the circumstance. The problem then was to find out who had ordered the roly-poly and where the steak-and-kidney pudding had got to.

In such a case, I found the best plan was to rap upon a table with the handle of a knife and to inquire, loudly and fearlessly, whether any lady or gentleman present was, at the moment, eating steak-and-kidney pudding in mistake for roly-poly. Thus the mystery would generally be cleared up in the quickest and simplest manner.

At dinner-time that day the Restaurant Bellini, instead of being three parts empty, was very nearly full.

Mr. Samuelson arrived with his party of friends. So did all the other guests of the night before, with their friends.

For the sake of Ernesto and Alberto I wished that our guests did not show their preference quite so unmistakably. One and all, they expressed a desire to be waited on by me. Really, it was embarrassing to a modest man.

Signor Bellini bowed, beamed and gesticulated in his most Italian manner, and when every one of my tables was full, he apologized volubly to those who had to be satisfied with Ernesto or Alberto.

I was struck afresh by the attitude of the two latter. Obviously they did not in the least resent my phenomenal success. They encouraged it in all sorts of ways. As when Alberto came to me and whispered:

"The old cheese in the purple bonnet's worrying me to death. She wouldn't be 'appy till I'd promised 'er you should bring 'er 'er corfey. And if you could manage to spill it down the front of 'er dress, I dare say she'd be in the seventh 'eaven!"

Discounting Alberto's little joke, I readily agreed to serve the dear old soul. I was glad I did when I saw how delighted she was.

After that, Ernesto and Alberto constantly came to me with similar requests.

My success as waiter was established. I had arrived.

 

ON THE third day, both at lunch and dinner-time, the Restaurant Bellini was packed to suffocation.

There was no doubt in any one's mind that it was I who was responsible for this, I who was making Bellini's popular as it had never been before. And everything I did seemed right. I could do no wrong. It became clear to me that I was the ideal waiter the world had been looking for.

With my customary diffidence, I was not quite sure why this should be so. I only knew it was so.

I told myself that there had been waiters, I myself knew of several, who wen almost as efficient as myself, so far as mere efficiency goes. Yet they did not make a restaurant as I was making this one. They did not count as I counted.

It seemed probable, then, that I possessed something over and above what these others possessed, some indefinable quality, some je ne sais quoi—at any rate, there it was.

Of course I could not help realizing one factor of my marvelous popularity, viz., the keen personal interest I took in every individual customer, the disinterested advice I gave them.

As I have already mentioned, I always gave them my real opinion of the food. Whenever it happened to be atrociously bad, I said so.

But I went further. Whenever customers ordered meals for which they were obviously unsuited, I said so. For example, to the lady of twenty stone who was eating cream with apple-pudding, I remarked, quite casually:

"Madam, it is an interesting physiological and chemical fact, of which you are no doubt unaware, that suet, flour and cream are the most potent manufacturers of adipose tissue in the world."

Thus, I did not presume to dictate to her. But, by the mere power of suggestion, I put her on the right track, as it were. If she chose to ignore the warning, her doom would be upon her own head; I had done my duty.

Similarly, to the chronic dyspeptic with the glazed nose who had dined at Bellini's for three nights running, I said in quite a friendly way:

"Don't you think, sir, you are coming here a little too frequently for the good of your health? May I venture to suggest, sir, that avoidance of the Restaurant Bellini for a few weeks, together with sips of hot water between meals, would soon reduce your nose to the normal?"

Undoubtedly these proofs of personal interest augmented my reputation.

On the fourth day Signor Bellini was obliged to close the doors and introduce the queue system to enable us to cope with the rush. He also engaged two more waiters and a second assistant cook.

On the fifth day the queue had grown to such a length that it had to be regulated by the police, and Signor Bellini hired a dozen extra tables.

 

ON THE sixth day the crowds that besieged the place were quite unqueueable. It became obvious that at least two-thirds of them would have to be turned away unfed. The police appealed to Signor Bellini to announce the fact to the waiting multitude and dismiss those who would eventually be doomed to disappointment.

Signor Bellini departed in order to address the crowd from the balcony of an upper room. He returned, after a brief interval, looking a little scared.

His eye sought mine, appealingly, it seemed to me.

"They're calling for you," he said. "They refuse to go till you've come out and made a speech."

Truly it was bewildering, overwhelming, this popularity of mine.

I followed Signor Bellini on to the balcony.

At sight of us the crowd cheered.

There were cries of "Bravo Bellini! Good old George!" And it flashed across my mind that my employer's innocent deception was common knowledge; beneath the "Georgio" they had discovered George.

"Come on, George!" shouted some one "Come and tell us all about it!"

"Speech! Speech!" yelled the crowd.

"You're in for it, sir," said Bellini.

I turned to him in bewilderment.

"But it's you they're calling!"

"Me? Not a bit of it. It's George Robey they're calling!"

I stared at him in amazement.

"How—how do they know? How do you know?"

"Never mind that now, sir," cried Bellini excitedly. "For Gawd's sake, say something and send this crowd away, or the pollce'll be down on me."

At this wholly unforeseen turn of events I hesitated for a moment. But only for a moment. Then I rose to the occasion and addressed the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I began, and a hush fell over the assembly. "Since you appear to know it, I will not conceal from you who I am." (Cries of "Bravo!" and "Hear! Hear!") "Neither will I conceal from you the object of my present occupation," I continued. (Cries of "A bet! To win a bet, eh, George?")

"Yes, a bet!" I told them in clarion accents. "But not one lightly or heedlessly undertaken. This is a serious bet. No, my friends," I continued earnestly, "I beg you not to laugh. This is a solemn and serious bet, undertaken with a solemn and serious purpose."

My voice trembled a little with suppressed emotion as I warmed to my task. The listening multitude had not yet grasped the full significance of my words. Their attitude continued to be jocular. But soon they would understand. In a few trenchant phrases, I would make everything clear to them. They would cease to laugh.

"The solemn and serious purpose I am speaking of," I cried, as soon as the laughter had subsided, "is the purpose of vindicating in my own person a grave charge that has been leveled against the ancient and honorable profession which writers in the Provincial and Sunday press have occasionally been kind enough to say I adorn!"

Apparently I had not yet caught the right note. Symptoms of thoughtless mirth continued to break out here and there among the crowd. I determined to try a more matter-of-fact tone.

"The apparent ease and insouciance of stage life," I said, as soon as I could hear myself speak, "have exposed my profession to the charge of frivolity."

I then went on to describe, in a few graphic words, what had passed between Jimmie and Billy and myself, and our subsequent line of conduct.

I passed briefly over the comparatively negligible episodes preceding my advent at Bellini's, then proceeded to dwell at some length upon the gratifying experience of the last six days.

With pardonable pride I described my methods as a waiter, and the success I had achieved. I regret to have to record it, but there was no cessation of mirth. I was forced to the reluctant conclusion that in every crowd there is a light-minded element that seeks facile amusement in everything, even the most serious matters.

This light-minded element it was that laughed. It laughed so noisily that the sober-minded majority had no chance.

The mirth of the empty-headed continued to ring out even after a posse of mounted police had begun to scatter the crowd.

 

IT WAS still ringing out when some one seized me from behind and dragged me away from the balcony.

Inside the room, I found myself face to face with Jimmie and Billy.

They, too, were giving way to mirth. So was Signer Bellini.

I confronted Jimmie and Billie sternly.

"So you broke your word," I said. "You betrayed me."

"Not at all!" they cried in one breath.

"We never said a word," declared Billie.

"It wasn't necessary," Jimmie jerked his head in the direction of Giorgio Bellini. "He knew it all the time, it seems. Ernesto spotted you directly; at least, he suspected you, and directly afterward you gave yourself away."

"How?"

"Don't you remember? You dropped a handkerchief," said Billy, "and Ernesto found it."

"Ah!"

"It was marked 'G. R.!' Ernesto knew you weren't the king, and there you are!"

"Well, at any rate, I have won my bet," I remarked, after a brief moment of annoyance.

"You mean you've lost it!" cried Jimmie and Billy as one man.

"What!" I exclaimed. "Can you deny me my success—I might without exaggeration call it my triumph—here at the Restaurant Bellini?"

"Your success as what?" cried Billy. "As a music hall comedian—as George Robey playing the fool—yes! But as a waiter—no!" shouted Jimmie.

"What do you mean?"

"We mean," said Jimmie, "that if you'd been an ordinary unknown waiter, Signor Bellini would have sacked you on your very first day."

I turned indignantly to Giorgio Bellini:

"What do you say to that?"

He shrugged his shoulders in an Italian manner, then relapsed into his native dialect:

"Since you asks me, as man to man, Mr. Robey, I answers, as man to man, wot do you think? As a waiter, Mr. Robey, sir, 'ow 'ave you be'aved? You've insulted me an' my restaurant; you've insulted the cook, you've insulted the food in front of my customers' faces, you asked 'em to stay away as I 'eard you with me own ears, you've gone and poured liquids down their backs an' solids down their fronts, you've made 'orrible personal remarks to ladies about their tissues and everybody knows 'ow sensitive ladies are over that sort o' thing, and you've mixed up the roly-polys with the steak-and-kidney something crool. Mr. Robey, sir, I asks you straight, would any of us 'ave stood it from a waiter if Ernesto 'adn't tipped us the wink?"

The silence that followed Signor Bellini's outburst was painful. I admit that it was painful. I felt it. I think that Signor Bellini felt it, too, for he spoke again, hastily:

"Not that it's for me to grumble, Mr. Robey," he said. "It's been a splendid advertisement for the place, as any one can see, and we've all thoroughly enjoyed it. I'm much obliged to you, sir."

"Not at all," I murmured.

"I suppose," Giorgio Bellini went on hesitatingly, "you couldn't see your way to stopping another week, sir?"

"Impossible," I replied gently. "Unfortunately, I am obliged, in a short space of time, to earn a large sum of money. In fact, two thousand pounds."