r 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 attendance watched me as if she expected I was going through the whole stock.
Three doughnuts, half a dozen cookies, quarter of an apple pie, with a glass of milk.
I have eaten dinners at Parker's, Young's, the Touraine, and the Waldorf-Astoria since then, but never one with a better appetite, or which went so directly to the spot.
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 ha