At Pochette's you sit down to a long table covered with dark-red mottled oilcloth and sprinkled with things to eat, and watch that your elbow doesn't cause your nearest neighbor to do the sword-swallowing act involuntarily and disastrously with his knife, or--you don't eat.

Frosty and I had walked down to the ferry-crossing while we waited, and then were late getting into the game when we heard the summons.
We went in and sat down just as the Chinaman was handing thick cups of coffee around rather sloppily.

From force of habit I looked for my napkin, remembered that I was in a napkinless region, and glanced up to see if any one had noticed.
Just across from me old King was pushing back his chair and getting stiffly upon his feet.

He met my eyes squarely--friend or enemy, I like a man to do that--and scowled.
"Through already ?" I reached for the sugar-bowl.
"What's it to you, damn yuh ?" he snapped, but we could see at a glance that King had not begun his meal.
I looked at Frosty, and he seemed waiting for me to say something.

So I said: "Too bad--we Ragged H men are such mighty slow eaters.