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قراءة كتاب Stories by English Authors: London (Selected by Scribners)

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‏اللغة: English
Stories by English Authors: London (Selected by Scribners)

Stories by English Authors: London (Selected by Scribners)

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
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STORIES BY ENGLISH AUTHORS



LONDON






Contents

THE INCONSIDERATE WAITER, By J. M. BARRIE

THE BLACK POODLE, By F. Anstey

THAT BRUTE SIMMONS, By Arthur Morrison

A ROSE OF THE GHETTO, By Israel Zangwill

AN IDYL OF LONDON, By Beatrice Harraden

THE OMNIBUS, By Quiller-Couch

THE HIRED BABY, By Marie Corelli






THE INCONSIDERATE WAITER, By J. M. BARRIE

Frequently I have to ask myself in the street for the name of the man I bowed to just now, and then, before I can answer, the wind of the first corner blows him from my memory. I have a theory, however, that those puzzling faces, which pass before I can see who cut the coat, all belong to club waiters.

Until William forced his affairs upon me that was all I did know of the private life of waiters, though I have been in the club for twenty years. I was even unaware whether they slept downstairs or had their own homes; nor had I the interest to inquire of other members, nor they the knowledge to inform me. I hold that this sort of people should be fed and clothed and given airing and wives and children, and I subscribe yearly, I believe for these purposes; but to come into closer relation with waiters is bad form; they are club fittings, and William should have kept his distress to himself, or taken it away and patched it up like a rent in one of the chairs. His inconsiderateness has been a pair of spectacles to me for months.

It is not correct taste to know the name of a club waiter, so I must apologise for knowing William's, and still more for not forgetting it. If, again, to speak of a waiter is bad form, to speak bitterly is the comic degree of it. But William has disappointed me sorely. There were years when I would defer dining several minutes that he might wait on me. His pains to reserve the window-seat for me were perfectly satisfactory. I allowed him privileges, as to suggest dishes, and would give him information, as that some one had startled me in the reading-room by slamming a door. I have shown him how I cut my finger with a piece of string. Obviously he was gratified by these attentions, usually recommending a liqueur; and I fancy he must have understood my sufferings, for he often looked ill himself. Probably he was rheumatic, but I cannot say for certain, as I never thought of asking, and he had the sense to see that the knowledge would be offensive to me.

In the smoking-room we have a waiter so independent that once, when he brought me a yellow chartreuse, and I said I had ordered green, he replied, "No, sir; you

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