know that Betsy Baker's was the Medford House.
Now, half dollars were not as plenty then as they are today, and besides, if the truth must be told, I had n't half a dollar in my pocket.
Hungrier than ever, I wandered down Salem street, when Withington's bakery caught my eye. They make things to eat, here, I said to myself, and of course they sell them.
A course of reasoning I subsequently found correct.
I shall never forget that dinner, which I ate off the counter, while the girl in attendt.
I remember it, too, for another reason.
There was a third person present, who watched my gastronomic performances with evident astonishment and admiration.
His floury appearance and white jacket showed him to be a baker, probably one of Mr. Withington's employees, and as soon as he opened his mouth I knew that he was an Irishman.
As I wiped my mouth with my handkerchief after finishing my meal, he opened upon me. Our conversation ran something like this:—
Ye come out here from Boston?