Petroleum industry and trade -- Texas -- Fiction; Texas -- History -- 20th century -- Fiction
The waiter was accustomed to "morning talkers," but this gentleman was
different. He had an air of consequence, and his voice, so deep, so
well modulated, so pleasant, invested him with unusual distinction.
Probably he was an actor! But no! Not in the Governor's suite. More
likely he was one of the big men of the Standard, or the Gulf, or the
Texas. To make sure, the waiter inquired:
"May I ask if you are in oil, sir?"
"In oil? Bless me, what a nauseating question--at this hour of the day!"
"'Most everybody here is in oil. We turn dozens away every day, we're
that full. It's the boom. I'm in oil myself--in a small way, of course.
It's like this: sometimes gentlemen like--well, like you, sir--give me
tips. They drop a hint, like, about their stocks, and I've done
well--in a small way, of course. It doesn't cost them anything
and--some of them are very kind. You'd really be surprised."
"Oh, not at all." The occupant of the Governor's suite leaned back in
his chair and smiled widely. "As a matter of fact, I am flattered, for
it is evident that you are endowed with the money-making instinct and
that you unerringly recognize it in others. Very well, I shall see what
I can do for you. But while we are on the subject of tips, would you
mind helping yourself to a dollar out of my trousers pocket?"
The waiter proceeded to do as directed, but a moment later announced,
apologetically: "Here's all I find, sir. It's mostly pennies." He
exposed a handful of small coins.
"Look in my coat, if you will."
But the second search resulted as had the first. "Strange!" murmured
the guest, without rising. "I must have been robbed. I remember now, a
fellow crowded me as I left my train. Um--m! Robbed--at the very gates
of Baghdad! Dallas _is_ a City of Adventure. Please add your tip to the
check, and--make it two dollars. I'd like to have you serve me every
morning, for I cannot abide an acid face at breakfast. It sours my
whole day."
Calvin Gray finished his breakfast, smoked a second cigarette as he
scanned the morning paper, then he dressed himself with meticulous
care. He possessed a tall, erect, athletic form, his perfectly fitting
clothes had that touch of individuality affected by a certain few of
New York's exclusive tailors, and when he finally surveyed himself in
the glass, there was no denying the fact that he presented an
appearance of unusual distinction. As he turned away, his eyes fell
upon the scanty handful of small coins which the waiter had removed
from his pocket and for a moment he stared at them reflectively, then
he scooped them into his palm and, with a smile, announced to his image:
"It would seem that it is time for us to introduce ourselves to the
management."
He was humming a tune as he strode out of his richly furnished quarters.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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