You're a doctor--or going to be--and you know
that. You've got to do the best you can, but you can't do more. That's
my motto. But if I'd been born a Frenchman---- Well it's no use
dreaming. If them potatoes are ready, Jim, so'm I."
Mr. Brown had taken a fancy to Robert Stonehouse from the moment that the
latter had challenged him on the very threshold of his kitchen and
explained, coolly and simply, his needs and his intentions. Mr. Brown
was frankly a Romantic, and Robert made up to him for the souffles and
other culinary adventures which Fate had denied him. He liked to dream
himself into Robert's future.
"One of these days I'll be pointing you out to my special
customers--'Yes, sir, that's Sir Robert himself. Comes here every
Saturday night for old times' sake. Used to work here with me--waited
with his own hands, sir--for two square meals and ten per cent. of his
tips. You don't get young men like that these days--no, sir."
Robert accepted his prophetic vision gravely. It was what he meant to
happen, and it did not seem to him to be amusing.
Brown's was tucked away in a quiet West End side street, and there was
only one entrance. At six o'clock the tables were still empty, and
Robert walked through into the employees' dressing-room. He put on his
white jacket, slightly stained with iodoform, and a black apron which
concealed his unprofessional grey trousers, and went to work in the
pantry, laying out plates and dishes in proper order, after the manner of
a general marshalling his troops for action.
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