It was Claire's first bad day since the hole in the mud. She had started

gallantly, scooting along the level road that flies straight west of

Fargo. But at noon she encountered a restaurant which made eating seem

an evil.

That they might have fair fame among motorists the commercial club of

Reaper had set at the edge of town a sign "Welcome to Reaper, a Live

Town--Speed Limit 8 Miles perhr." Being interpreted, that sign meant

that if you went much over twenty miles an hour on the main street,

people might glance at you; and that the real welcome, the only

impression of Reaper that tourists were likely to carry away, was the

welcome in the one restaurant. It was called the Eats Garden. As Claire

and her father entered, they were stifled by a belch of smoke from the

frying pan in the kitchen. The room was blocked by a huge lunch counter;

there was only one table, covered with oil cloth decorated with

venerable spots of dried egg yolk.

The waiter-cook, whose apron was gravy-patterned, with a border and

stomacher of plain gray dirt, grumbled, "Whadyuhwant?"

Claire sufficiently recovered to pick out the type from the fly specks

on the menu, and she ordered a small steak and coffee for her father;

for herself tea, boiled eggs, toast.

"Toast? We ain't got any toast!"

"Well, can't you make it?"

"Oh, I suppose I could----"

When they came, the slices of toast were an inch thick, burnt on one

side and raw on the other. The tea was bitter and the eggs watery. Her

father reported that his steak was high-test rawhide, and his

coffee--well, he wasn't sure just what substitute had been used for

chicory, but he thought it was lukewarm quinine.

Claire raged: "You know, this town really has aspirations. They're

beginning to build such nice little bungalows, and there's a fine clean

bank---- Then they permit this scoundrel to advertise the town among

strangers, influential strangers, in motors, by serving food like this!

I suppose they think that they arrest criminals here, yet this

restaurant man is a thief, to charge real money for food like this----

Yes, and he's a murderer!"

"Oh, come now, dolly!"

"Yes he is, literally. He must in his glorious career have given chronic

indigestion to thousands of people--shortened their lives by years.

That's wholesale murder. If I were the authorities here, I'd be

indulgent to the people who only murder one or two people, but imprison

this cook for life. Really! I mean it!"

"Well, he probably does the best he----"

"He does not! These eggs and this bread were perfectly good, before he

did black magic over them. And did you see the contemptuous look he gave

me when I was so eccentric as to order toast? Oh, Reaper, Reaper, you

desire a modern town, yet I wonder if you know how many thousands of

tourists go from coast to coast, cursing you? If I could only hang that

restaurant man--and the others like him--in a rope of his own hempen

griddle cakes! The Great American Frying Pan! I don't expect men

building a new town to have time to read Hugh Walpole and James Branch

Cabell, but I do expect them to afford a cook who can fry eggs!"




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024