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 said yellow." William could never have been guilty of such effrontery. In
appearance, of course, he is mean, but I can no more describe him than a
milkmaid could draw cows. I suppose we distinguish one waiter from another
much as we pick our hat from the rack. We could have plotted a murder safely
before William. He never presumed to have any opinions of his own. When such
was my mood he remained silent, and if I announced that something diverting
had happened to me he laughed before I told him what it was. He turned the
twinkle in his eye off or on at my bidding as readily as if it was the gas. To my
"Sure to be wet to-morrow," he would reply, "Yes, sir;" and to Trelawney's "It
doesn't look like rain," two minutes afterward, he would reply, "No, sir." It was one
member who said Lightning Rod would win the Derby and another who said
Lightning Rod had no chance, but it was William who agreed with both. He was
like a cheroot, which may be smoked from either end. So used was I to him that,
