The proprietor was a calm, cold man. He viewed Hawkins with an
inscrutable stare for some time before he spoke.
"I hardly know, Mr. Hawkins," he said at last, "whom to blame for
this."
"Well, I know! That hulking lummox who knocked over my----"
"At any rate, the machine was yours, I fear you will have to pay for
the damage."
"I will, eh?" blustered Hawkins. "Well, I told your man Macdougal that
if one dish was broken I'd pay for it. Here's the dollar for the dish!
Come, Griggs."
"Um-um. So you refuse to settle?" smiled the proprietor.
"Absolutely and positively!" declared Hawkins.
"Well, I think that, pending a suit for damages, I can have you held
on a charge of disorderly conduct," mused the calm man. "Mr.
Macdougal, will you kindly call an officer?"
Hawkins wilted at that. His checkbook came forth, and the string of
figures he was compelled to write made my heart bleed.
When he had exchanged the slip for a receipt, Hawkins and I made for
the side door and slunk out into the night.
The Gasowashine, I presume, or such combustible fragments as remained,
found an inglorious grave next day in the ranges of the same kitchen
which had witnessed the start of its short little life.
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