"All this time Uncle Jesse was patient and polite, but almighty mysterious. Bets now began to be made in whispers by the men: It would be thin oyster soup, pumpkin pies, and cider; or cold corn beef and preserves; or, worse still, codfish balls and griddle-cakes. Seven o'clock came--seven-five--seven-ten. Then a gong sounded in the next room, and Uncle Jesse sprang to the door, raised one hand while the other fumbled with the lock, and shouted as he swung back the door: "'Solid men to the front!' "You should have seen that table! One long perspective of bliss--porter-house steak and broiled blue-fish--porter-house steak and broiled blue-fish--porter-house steak and broiled blue-fish down to the end of the table; and alongside each plate a quart of extra-dry, frappéed to half a degree, and a pint of Burgundy the temperature of your sweet-heart's hand! All about were heaps of home-made bread and flakes of butter, and--Oh, that table! "We stood paralyzed for a moment, and then sent up a roaring cheer that nearly lifted the roof. Uncle Jesse wasn't going to sit down, but we grabbed him by the shoulders and started him on the run for the end of the table, and there he sat until only heaps of bones and dead bottles marked the scene of action. Whenever a man could get his breath he broke out in song, everybody joining in. 'Oh, dem golden fritters!' was chanted to an accompaniment of clattering forks on empty plates, the cook and his staff craning their heads through the door and helping out with a double shuffle of their own. "Coffee was served in the bar-room, and all filed out to drink it, every man full to his eyelids and saturated with a contentment that only Long Island blue-fish and Fulton Market steak with the necessary liquids and solids could produce. "While we smoked on and sipped our coffee, Uncle Jesse's silences became more frequent, and soon the old fellow dozed off to sleep. He was over seventy then, and was used to having a nap after dinner.