"Say, for the love of Pete, Heiney!" says I, "will you saw that off before you draw a crowd? I'm glad you believe Jarvis, and that Jarvis believes you; but hanged if I can quite swallow any such dopy yarn as that without somethin' more convincin'! All I know about you is that you're the worst floor scrubber I ever saw. And you say you was a cook, do you?" "Cook!" says Heiney, swellin' up his chest. "I am tell you zat I was ze premier chef. I have made for myself fame. Everywhere in _l'Europe_ zey will tell you of me. For the king of ze Englise I have made a dinner. _Moi!_ I have invent ze sauce Ravignon. From nozzing at all--some meat scraps, some leetle greens--I produce ze dish ravishment." "Yes, I've heard bluffs like that before," says I; "but I never saw one made good. Tell you what I'll do, though: In the far corner of the gym, there, is what Swifty Joe calls his kitchenet, where he warms up his chowder and beans. There's a two-burner gas stove, an old fryin' pan, and a coffee pot. Now here's a dollar. You take that out on Sixth-ave. and spend it for meat scraps and leetle greens. Then you come back here, and while Jarvis and I are takin' a little exercise, if you can hash up anything that's fit to eat, I'll believe your whole yarn. Do you make the try?" Does he? Say, you never saw such a tickled Frenchy in your life. Before Jarvis and me had got nicely peeled down for our delayed boxin' bout, Heiney is back with his bundles, has got the fryin' pan scoured, the gas blazin', and is throwin' things together like a juggler doin' a stage turn. He sheds the blue jumper, ties a bath towel around him for an apron, makes a hat out of a paper bag, and twists some of that stringy lip decoration of his into a pointed mustache. Honest, he didn't look nor act any more like the wreck that had dragged the mop in there half an hour before than I look like Bill Taft. And by the time we've had our three rounds and a rub down, he's standin' doubled up beside a little table that he's found, with his arms spread out like he was goin' to take a dive. "_Messieurs_," says he, "eet ees serve." "Good!" says I. "I'm just about up to tacklin' a hot lunch. What kind of a mess have you got here, anyway, Heiney? Any alum in it? Blamed if I don't make you put away the whole shootin' match if it ain't good!" How's that? Well, say, I couldn't name it, or say whether it was a stew, fry or an omelet, but for an impromptu sample of fancy grub it was a little the tastiest article I ever stacked up against. "Why!" says Jarvis, smackin' his lips after the third forkful. "It's _ris de veau_, isn't it?" "But yes, monsieur!" says Heiney, his face lightin' up. "Eet ees _ris de veau grille, a la financier_." "And what's that in English?" says I. "In Englise," says Heiney, shruggin' his shoulders, "eet ees not exist. Eet ees Parisienne."