“Yes, I s’pose so. I know what you want and you won’t git her, neither. She’s all I got, an’ she loves me, if I am pore and miserable.” I expressed my surprise at her remarks and followed up with the assurance that I knew she was the object of my search, but I said: “If you will tell me where I can get something to eat, I will first satisfy the inner man, then I want to have a long talk with you.” “My Lord, man, you don’t spect to find nothin’ to eat here, do you? Fer if you do, sir, you’re much mistaken. In the first place this hain’t no hotel nor ‘caffey.’ Why, we hain’t had a square meal in three months; fact; not sence her monkey died.” “Whose monkey? Who is ‘her’?” “Oh, that’s it, eh? Well, I guess you know.” “No, indeed, I don’t know what you mean, but if you will tell me where to find something fit for a man to take into his stomach, I will go and eat and bring you something.” “Oh, will you? Well, jes’ go to the next corner south, turn to the left and you will find ‘Peggy Pete’s’ place; I guess you can git about anything you want.” Following her directions, I soon found myself in a shop where every conceivable thing that a man could think of, was kept for sale. A stenciled bill of fare occupied a conspicuous place above the oilcloth covered lunch counter, telling in detail what was ready to serve; everything from tripe, all along, including such delicacies as pickled pig’s feet, fried liver, wienerwursts and winding up with the announcement that hot soup could be obtained at ten cents per gallon. The proprietor was a one-eyed, one-legged man of fat and greasy proportions and when I ordered a pound of ham, three loaves of bread, a pound of butter, a dozen eggs, some coffee, and finished by calling for cream, he looked at me in a way that surely strained his one organ of vision. “Goin’ to eat it here?” he asked, as he limped around selecting the articles as I ordered them. “No, I will take them along.” At this information he shot a quick gleaming look at me, then hastily grabbing the packages off the counter, laid them back on the shelf safely out of my reach, as he said, “Anything else?” “Yes, I want you to make me a gallon of soup, good oyster soup, and put lots of oysters in it.” “Now look here, feller, you needn’t git smart,” said the robust and reddened merchant. Then, as he pointed to the sign, he added: “That means shank soup. You can’t come no shenanigan on me; if you want oyster soup, yew can have it, but it will cost yer fifty cents per gal.” “All right; I want it.” A wait of twenty minutes and the soup was ready. “Now, let me have some crackers, and how much do I owe you?” said I, as I slowly counted a few pieces of silver which I drew from my pocket. “A dollar forty,” said the man, as he reached out for the money with one hand, while the other rested affectionately on the little pile of bundles as they lay beside the gallon apple can into which he had poured the soup.