Even one of my competitors showed himself to be a dead sport
by coming to me from time to time with hints and advice. He was an
entirely worthy person who advertised his restaurant as "Bert's
Place." "Go to Bert's Place for a Square Meal," was his favoured line
in the public prints. He, also, I regret to say, made a practice of
displaying cooked foods in his show-window, the window carrying the
line in enamelled letters, "Tables Reserved for Ladies."
Of course between such an establishment and my own there could be
little in common, and I was obliged to reject a placard which he
offered me, reading, "No Checks Cashed. This Means You!" although he
and Cousin Egbert warmly advised that I display it in a conspicuous
place. "Some of them dead beats in the North Side set will put you
sideways if you don't," warned the latter, but I held firmly to the
line of quiet refinement which I had laid down, and explained that I
could allow no such inconsiderate mention of money to be obtruded upon
the notice of my guests. I would devise some subtler protection
against the dead beet-roots.
In the matter of music, however, I was pleased to accept the advice of
Cousin Egbert. "Get one of them musical pianos that you put a nickel
in," he counselled me, and this I did, together with an assorted
repertoire of selections both classical and popular, the latter
consisting chiefly of the ragging time songs to which the native
Americans perform their folkdances.
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