Life — June 7, 1929 — page 15: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Life Short Stories of Life The Speedy Waiter By Benny Benson AITER! Oh, waiter!” “Yes, sir?” Bacon, buttered toast Bacon, buttertust, scottee, and s. Sit. sir.” “And waiter—hurry it up. to catch a train.” . sir, Gotta catcha train, sir.” “I've got to catch two trains.” “Yes, sir, Gotta catcha two train, I've got sir The waiter dashed madly through the swinging doors at the far end of the spacious hotel dining room. The customer, a portly gent from Portland, settled back with the morning paper and chuckled. Leave it to him; he knew how to get speedy service. Even now in that unexplored region, shut off from the dining room and the rest of the bright world by the swinging doors, the waiter was all atwitter. “Bacon, buttertust, scoffee,” he read aloud from his order pad. He looked about him, grabbed his hat and jumped through a window. A fre wagon passed. The waiter oa swung aboard and a few seconds later dropped off at the Grand Central Sta- tion. Breathless, he climbed to the observation platform of the last sec- tion of a fast train for Chicago. The change at Chicago was made without mishap, and the waiter was soon settled comfortably in a peaceful litle mid-western farming center. He bought some pigs. The farm he leased was fertile and the wheat sprouted well, One day, as he passed through a nearby village, a girl no- ticed him and married him. She was a lovely bride, yellow hair, blue eyes, a snub nose, freckles on her face and a mole on her left shoulder. When the children arrived they adored her, There are women who are meant to be mothers. “Feed the hogs well,” the waiter would say to the children, who sang at their daily chores. “There is a cus- tomer sitting at a table back in New York waiting for your father to bring home the bacon.” The little woman had taught the waiter to speak good English. One bright morning she asked him if he would chase himself up to the attic and bring down an old trunk. “I haven't time,” said the waiter. “I'm going fishing.” She said, “Put down that The waiter grabbed his hat and jumped through a window. fishing pole and go grab a handful of that trunk in the attic, you lazy bum.” So he went to fetch the trunk. His foot slipped on the narrow stairs and he dropped the trunk on the litle woman's foot. She threw it at him. He caught it and tossed it back at her. She missed. The trunk hit her in the head and smashed open. Out rolled an order pad, yellow and faded with age. “Ah!” exclaimed the waiter. “I'll check up and see how I am getting along with this order.” “Bacon,” he read. He went to look at the hogs. They were fat and ready for the butcher. “Buttered toast.” Just that morning he had sent some wheat to the mill to be ground into flour. “Coffee,” he read. “Coffee?” Quickly, the waiter summoned his eldest son to his side. “Eldest son,” he cried, “you must hasten thither in search of coffee.” The son, an obedient lad and fond of travel, hastened. The waiter returned to New York with a hog under one arm and a sack (Continued on Page 38) comicbooks.com