And now tell me about dear Ruth, and what she says about coming down to dinner next week ?" It was wonderful how young he looked, and how happy he was, and how spry his step, as the two turned into William Street and so on to the cheap little French restaurant with its sanded floor, little tables for two and four, with their tiny pots of mustard and flagons of oil and red vinegar,--this last, the "left-overs" of countless bottles of Bordeaux,--to say nothing of the great piles of French bread weighing down a shelf beside the proprietor's desk, racked up like cordwood, and all of the same color, length, and thickness.
Every foot of the way through the room toward his own table--his for years, and which was placed in the far corner overlooking the doleful little garden with its half-starved vine and hanging baskets--Peter had been obliged to speak to everybody he passed (some of the younger men rose to their feet to shake his hand)--until he reached the proprietor and gave his order.
Auguste, plump and oily, his napkin over his arm, drew out his chair (it was always tipped back in reserve until he arrived), laid another plate and accessories for his guest, and then bent his head in attention until Peter indicated the particular brand of Bordeaux--the color of the wax sealing its top was the only label--with which he proposed to entertain his friend.
All this time Jack had been on the point of bursting.

Once he had slipped his hand into his pocket for Breen's letter, in the belief that the best way to get the most enjoyment out of the incident of his visit and the result,--for it was still a joke to Jack,--would be to lay the half sheet on Peter's plate and watch the old fellow's face as he read it.

Then he decided to lead gradually up to it, concealing the best part of the story--the prospectus and how it was to be braced--until the last.
But the boy could not wait; so, after he had told Peter about Ruth,--and that took ten minutes, try as hard as he could to shorten the telling,--during which the stuffed peppers were in evidence,--and after Peter had replied with certain messages to Ruth,--during which the spaghetti was served sizzling hot, with entrancing frazzlings of brown cheese clinging to the edges of the tin plate--the Chief Assistant squared his elbows and plunged head-foremost into the subject.
"And now, I have got a surprise for you, Uncle Peter," cried Jack, smothering his eagerness as best he could.
The old fellow held up his hand, reached for the shabby, dust-begrimed bottle, that had been sound asleep under the sidewalk for years; filled Jack's glass, then his own; settled himself in his chair and said with a dry smile: "If it's something startling, Jack, wait until we drink this," and he lifted the slender rim to his lips.

"If it's something delightful, you can spring it now." "It is both," answered Jack.

"Listen and doubt your ears.