Then she begin sobbin’ about how I’d spoiled the trip and I had to promise I wouldn’t think no more o’ what we were spendin’. I might just as well of promised to not worry when the White Sox lost or when I’d forgot to come home to supper.
We went in the dinin’ room about six-thirty and was showed to a table where they was another couple settin’. They was husband and wife, I guess, but I don’t know which was which. She was wieldin’ the pencil and writin’ down their order.
“I guess I’ll have clams,” he says.
“They disagreed with you last night,” says she.
“All right,” he says. “I won’t try ’em. Give me cream-o’-tomato soup.”
“You don’t like tomatoes,” she says.
“Well, I won’t have no soup,” says he. “A little o’ the bluefish.”
“The bluefish wasn’t no good at noon,” she says. “You better try the bass.”
“All right, make it bass,” he says. “And them sweetbreads and a little roast beef and sweet potatoes and peas and vanilla ice-cream and coffee.”
“You wouldn’t touch sweetbreads at home,” says she, “and you can’t tell what they’ll be in a hotel.”
“All right, cut out the sweetbreads,” he says.
“I should think you’d have the stewed chicken,” she says, “and leave out the roast beef.”
“Stewed chicken it is,” says he.