You Should Worry Says John Henry | Page 7

in an
appetizing manner?"
[Illustration]
"Of course," answered Ollie, her lips curling disdainfully.
Then I chipped in with, "Very well, Ollie; the members of this
household are vegetarians, for the time being. All of us vegetarians,
including the dog, so please govern yourself accordingly."

Ollie smiled in a broad Hungarian manner and whispered that
vegetarianisms was where she lived.
She confided to us that she could cook vegetables so artistically that the
palate would believe them to be filet mignon, with champagne sauce.
Then she shook the rolling pin at a picture of friend wife's grandfather,
and started in to fool the Beef Trust and put all the butchers out of
business.
Dinner time came and we were all expectancy.
The first course was potato soup. Filling but not fascinating.
The second course was potato chips, which we nibbled slightly while
we looked eagerly at the butler's pantry.
The next course was French fried potatoes with some shoestring
potatoes on the side, and I began to get nervous.
This was followed by a dish of German fried potatoes, some
hash-browned potatoes and some potato saute, whereupon my appetite
got up and left the room.
The next course was plain boiled potatoes with the jackets on, and
baked potatoes with the jackets open at the throat, and then some
roasted potatoes with Bolero jackets.
I was beginning to see that a man must have in his veins the blood of
martyrs and of heroes to be a vegetarian and at the same time I could
feel myself fixing my fingers to choke Ollie.
The next course was a large plate of potato salad, and then I fainted.
When I got back Ollie was standing near the table with a sweet smile
on each side of her face, waiting for the applause of those present.
"Have you anything else?" I inquired hungrily.

"Oh, yes!" said Ollie. "I have some potato pudding for dessert."
When I got through swearing Ollie was under the stove, my wife was
under the table, the dog was under the bed, and I was under the
influence of liquor.
I'm cured.
After this my digestive tract will have to fight a sirloin steak every time
I get hungry.
Besides, I don't want to live as long as Methuselah. If I did I'd have to
learn to tango some time in the 875 years to come--then I'd be just the
same as everybody else in the world.
Can you get a flash of Methuselah at the age of 64 taking Tango
lessons from Baldy Sloane up at Weisenfeffer's pedal parlors? And then
having to survive for 850 years with the dance bug in his dome!
Close the door, Delia; there's a draft.
When Peaches recovered from the shock of my outburst over the potato
pudding she said the only way I could square myself was to take her to
the very latest up-to-datest hotel in New York for dinner.
That is some task if you live up town, believe me, because they open
new hotels in New York now the same as they open oysters--by the
dozen.
However, after stuffing my pockets with all my earthly possessions, we
hiked forth and steered for the Builtfast--the very latest thing in
expensive beaneries.
Directly we entered its polished portals we could see from the faces of
the clerks and the clocks that a lot of money changed hands before the
Builtfast finally became an assessment center.
In the lobby the furniture was covered with men about town, who sat
around with a checkbook in each hand and made faces at the cash

register.
There are more bellboys than bedrooms in the hotel. They use them for
change. Every time you give the cashier $15 he hands you back $1.50
and six bellboys.
We took a peep at the diamond-backed dining-room, and when I saw
the waiters refusing everything but certified checks in the way of a tip,
I said to Peaches, "This is no place for us!" But she wouldn't let go, and
we filed into the appetite killery.
A very polite lieutenant waiter, with a sergeant waiter and two corporal
waiters, greeted us and we gave the countersign, "Abandon health, all
ye who enter here."
Then the lieutenant waiter and his army corps deployed by columns of
four and escorted us to the most expensive looking trough I ever saw in
a dining-room.
"Peaches," I said to friend wife, "I'm doing this to please you, but after
I pay the check it's me to file a petition in bankruptcy."
She just grinned, picked up the point-lace napkin and began to admire
the onyx furniture.
"Que souhaitez vous?" said the waiter, bowing so low that I could feel
a chill running through my little bank account.
"I guess he means you," I whispered to